yi_n_n — r 


REESE  LIBRARY 

OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Deceived  /J^^iL.          ,  1900  . 

Accession  No.  &0&  6  0    •   Class  No. 


THE   PHYSICIAN 


THE    PHYSICIAN 


AN  ORIGINAL  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 

HENRY    ARTHUR    JONES 

AUTHOR   OF 

'MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL,'  'THE  CRUSADERS,'  'THE  CASE 

OF   REBELLIOUS   SUSAN,'    'jUDAH,'    'THE   MIDDLEMAN,'    'THE 
TRIUMPH   OF   THE   PHILISTINES,'    '  THE   DANCING   GIRL,' 

'THE  TEMPTER,'  'THE  ROGUE'S  COMEDY,'  'THE 

MASQUERADERS,'  'THE  LIARS,'  'THE  GOAL,' 

'THE  MANCEUVRES  OF  JANE,'  ETC. 


3Lonbon 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO.,  LIMITED 

NEW  YORK  :    THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


<f  0  -3,  6,  O 

Copyright  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


Produced  by  Mr.  Charles  Wyndham  at  the  Criterion 
Theatre,  London,  on  25th  March  1897. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

DR.  LEWIN  CAREY. 
WALTER  AM  PHI  EL. 
REVEREND  PEREGRINE  HINDE. 
DR.  BROOKER. 
STEPHEN  GURDON.   A 
JAMES  HEBBINGS. 
JOHN  DIBLEY. 
VICCARS. 

EDANA  HINDE. 
.  LADY  VALERIE  CAMVILLE. 
MRS.  BOWDEN. 
MRS.  DIBLEY. 
LOUISA  PACK. 
MARAH  GURDON,  a  child. 
SAUNDERS,  Lady  Valerie's  maid. 
LIZZIE,  the  Vicarage  servant. 


ACT   I 

SCENE — CONSULTING-ROOM  AT  DR.  LEWIN  CAREY'S, 
39  CAVENDISH  SQUARE. 

(Three  months  pass.} 

ACT   II 

SCENE — SAINT  EDANA'S  WELL  AND  CHURCH,  FONTLEAS. 
(Six  months  pass.) 

ACT    III 

SCENE — THE  ABBOT'S  KITCHEN,  FONTLEAS. 
(Nine  months  pass.) 

ACT   IV 

SCENE — THE  VICARAGE  DRAWING-ROOM,  FONTLEAS. 

Time. — PRESENT  DAY. 


The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  original  play-bill  of 
"  The  Physician." 

CRITERION    THEATRE. 


Lessee  and  Manager— MR.  CHARLES  WYNDHAM. 

On  Thursday,  25th  March  1897,  for  the  first  time, 
A  new  Play  of  modern  life,  in  Four  Acts,  entitled 

THE    PHYSICIAN 
By  HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 

.      Mr.  Charles  Wyndham. 
.      Mr.  Alfred  Bishop. 
.      Mr.  T.  B.  Thalberg. 

Mr.  Leslie  Kenyon. 
.      Mr.  J.  G.  Taylor. 
.     Mr.  Kenneth  Douglas. 
.      Mr.  A.  E.  George. 
.      Mr.  F.  H.  Tyler. 
.      Mr.  F.  Vigay. 

Miss  Marion  Terry. 

Miss  E.  Vining. 

Miss  Carlotta  Addison. 

Miss  Jocelyn. 
.      Miss  Valli  Valli. 

Miss  M.  Clayton. 
.     Miss  D.  Fellowes. 

Miss  Mary  Moore. 


DR.  LEWIN  CAREY 

REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE 

WALTER  AM  PHI  EL 

DR.  BROOKER 

STEPHEN  GURDON 

JAMES  HEBBINGS  . 

JOHN  DIBLEY 

VICCARS 

POSTMAN 

LADY  VALERIE  CAMVILLE 

MRS.  BOWDEN 

MRS.  DIBLEY 

LOUISA  PACK 

MARAH 

LIZZIE  .... 

SAUNDERS     . 

EDANA  HINDE 


ACT  I 

CONSULTING-ROOM  AT  DR.  LEWIN  CAREY'S, 
39  CAVENDISH  SQUARE. 

( Three  months  pass. ) 


THE  PHYSICIAN  ix 

ACT   II 

SAINT  EDANA'S  WELL  AND  CHURCH  AT  FONTLEAS 
(Walter  Hann). 

(Szx  months  pass.) 

ACT  III 

THE  ABBOT'S  KITCHEN,  FONTLEAS  (Walter  Hann). 
(Ten  months  pass.) 

ACT  IV 

THE  VICARAGE,  FONTLEAS. 

Time. — THE  PRESENT. 


There  will  be  an  interval  of  about  ten  minutes  between  Acts  I. ,  II. , 
III.,  and  about  five  minutes  between  Acts  III.  and  IV. 


Matinees  of  "The  Physician,"  Wednesday,  3ist  March, 
Saturday,  3rd  April,  and  every  following  Saturday. 


Stage  Manager — Mr.  PERCY  HUTCHISON. 

Musical  Director — Mr.  VICTOR  HOLLAENDER. 

Acting  Manager  and  Treasurer — Mr.  E.  HARVEY. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  —  CONSULTING-ROOM  AT  DR.  LEWIN  CAREY'S, 
CAVENDISH  SQUARE,  A  SUBSTANTIALLY  FURNISHED 

ROOM,    SUCH    AS    WOULD    BE   USED    BY    A    LONDON 

PHYSICIAN  IN  GOOD  PRACTICE. 

Door  down  stage  L.  Door  at  back  L.  Fireplace  at 
back  R.  Windows  R.  Book-  cases  *,  containing 
medical  works,  round  the  room.  One  or  two  good 
oil  paintings. 

TIME  :  late  on  an  April  afternoon. 

Enter  door  at  back,  VICCARS,  DR.  CAREY'S  butler, 
showing  in  WALTER  AMPHIEL.  AMPHIEL  is  a 
pale,  thin,  and  very  delicate  -looking  man  about 
thirty  ;  striking,  earnest  features,  with  a  winning, 
lovable  expression  ;  rather  weak  mouth  ;  restless, 
furtive  eyes  with  a  hunted  look  in  them.  His 
ordinary  manner  is  absent,  dreamy,  self-absorbed, 
and  there  is  a  strangeness  and  indecision  in  his 
movements  and  speech,  but  this  at  times  gives  place 
to  fits  of  feverish  energy. 


" 


2  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

VICCARS.     Dr.  Carey  is  attending  a  consultation, 
sir,  but  I  expect  him  back  shortly. 
AMPHIEL.     I'll  wait. 
VICCARS.     What  name  shall  I  say  ? 
AMPHIEL.     My  name  doesn't  matter.     I'll  wait. 
(Exit  VICCARS  at  back.) 
(AMpmEL/urtivefy  watches  VICCARS  off,  and 
as  soon   as   the  door  has   closed,  goes 
quickly  to  the  book-shelves,  runs  his  eye 
eagerly  over  them  as  if  searching  for 
something,  takes  out  a  particular  book, 
looks  at  index,   opens  it  at  a   certain 
page,  sits  down,  reads  eagerly.     A  short 
pause?) 

Enter  VICCARS  at  back,  showing  in  DR.  BROOKER,  a 
middle-aged  man,  brisk,  genial,  robust ;  sangtiine 
complexion  ;  a  little  stout,  a  little  bald. 

(As  BROOKER  enters,  AMPHIEL  shows  recogni- 
tion and  a  little  embarrassment,  hiding 
his  head  behind  his  book.} 

BROOKER  (entering).  Thank  you,  Viccars.  Dr. 
Carey  does  expect  me,  doesn't  he  ? 

VICCARS.  Yes,  sir.  He  left  word  if  you  came 
that  he'd  be  back  almost  at  once.  Shall  I  get  you 
anything  after  your  journey,  sir  ? 

BROOKER.  No,  thank  you.  Well,  just  a  cup  of 
tea,  if  you'll  be  so  good.  (Exit  VICCARS  at  back} 


ACT  i  THE  PHYSICIAN  3 

BROOKER  (sitting  down,  catches  sight  of  AMPHIEL'S 
face  as  he  looks  up  furtively  from  his  book).  I  beg  par- 
don, my  name  is  Brooker — Dr.  Brooker  of  Folkestone. 
I've  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  somewhere  ? 

AMPHIEL  (with  slight  embarrassment).  I  think  not 
— I  don't  remember  you. 

BROOKER  (still  looking  at  him).  I  suppose  I  was 
mistaken.  Your  face  seemed  familiar  to  me. 

(A  little  pause.) 

AMPHIEL.  Very  interesting  place,  a  doctor's  con- 
sulting-room ? 

BROOKER.     H'm  ! — not  very — to  the  doctor. 

AMPHIEL.  This  room,  for  instance.  How  many 
strange  stories  and  confessions  these  walls  must  have 
listened  to  !  How  many  men  and  women  must  have 
entered  that  door  with  hope  in  their  hearts,  and 
received  their  death  sentence,  sitting  perhaps  where  I 
am  sitting  now  ! 

BROOKER.  Oh,  don't  speak  of  us  as  if  we  were 
bloodthirsty  hanging  judges.  Say  rather  how  many 
men  have  entered  that  door  with  despair  in  their 
hearts  and  gone  out  cheered  and  comforted ! 

AMPHIEL.  Dr.  Carey  is  marvellously  skilful  in 
certain — certain  nervous  diseases,  isn't  he  ? 

BROOKER.  He's  marvellously  skilful  in  all  kinds 
of  diseases.  He  has  made  a  great  reputation  with 
nerve  diseases,  simply  because  this  is  a  nervous  age. 
Everybody  is  suffering  from  neurasthenia  to-day. 
Except  myself,  thank  God  ! 


4  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  I 

VICCARS  re-enters  L.  with  tea  on  salver,  which  he  brings 
to  DR.  BROOKER.  AMPHIEL  puts  book  on  table, 
open. 

BROOKER  (looking  steadily  at  AMPHIEL).  Surely  I 
— didn't  you  consult  me  one  Sunday  evening  three  or 
four  years  ago  ? 

AMPHIEL.  No,  no,  I've  never  met  you.  (To 
VICCARS.)  Dr.  Carey  hasn't  returned.  (Takes  out 
watch.)  I'll  call  again  by  and  by. 

(Exit  AMPHIEL  at  back  rather  hurriedly?) 

VICCARS  (at  door,  looking  after  him,  calling  off). 
The  door,  Thomas. 

(Meantime  BROOKER  has  taken  up  the  book 
which  AMPHIEL  has  put  down.  He 
looks  at  the  page,  raises  his  eyebrows, 
puts  book  on  table  again,  leaving  it  open?) 

BROOKER  (taking  tea).  And  how  have  you  been 
all  this  time,  Viccars  ? 

VICCARS.    I've  kept  pretty  tolerable,  I  thank  you,  sir. 

BROOKER.     And  Dr.  Carey? 

VICCARS.     About  as  usual,  sir. 

BROOKER.  He  wrote  me  rather  an  urgent  letter. 
I  thought  perhaps  something  was  wrong.  (VICCARS 
does  not  reply.  There  is  a  short  pause.)  He  has  had 
no  trouble,  no  misfortune,  no  loss  ? 

VICCARS.  No,  sir.  At  least,  none  that  it's  any 
business  of  mine  to  take  notice  of. 

BROOKER.     You're  right,   Viccars.     Of  course,   I 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  5 

didn't  wish  you  to  speak  of  Dr.  Carey's  affairs.  He's 
quite  well  ? 

VICCARS.  In  body,  I  believe,  quite  well,  sir. 
Though,  of  course,  the  journey  to  Egypt  and  his 
attendance  on  the  Pasha  have  fagged  him  a  good  deal. 

BROOKER.     You  went  with  him,  Viccars  ? 

VICCARS.  Yes,  sir.  I  had  that  honour.  Dr. 
Carey  waited  on  the  Pasha  night  and  day,  and  I 
waited  on  Dr.  Carey.  It  was  wonderful  to  watch  him. 

BROOKER.     How — wonderful  ? 

VICCARS.  He  seemed  determined  to  keep  the  life 
in  the  old  fellow.  I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  Dr. 
Carey,  but  he  seems  to  have  got  that  in  him — well,  I 
can't  describe  it — but  if  once  Dr.  Carey  makes  up  his 
mind  that  a  certain  patient  shall  live,  it  seems  more 
than  that  patient  dare  do  to  die,  and  it's  more  than 
Death  dare  do  to  lay  hands  on  him. 

BROOKER.  And  Death  did  not  lay  hands  on  the 
Pasha  ? 

VICCARS.  No,  sir.  We  pulled  the  old  chap 
through  and  left  him  happy,  and  comparatively  rollick- 
ing, so  to  speak,  with  his  four  wives.  I  think  I  heard 
the  carriage.  (Looking  out  of  window^  Yes,  here 
is  Dr.  Carey.  (Crossing  to  door  at  back.) 

VICCARS  opens  door.     DR.  CAREY  enters. 

(Exit  VICCARS.) 

(DR.  LEWIN  CAREY  is  a  man  of  from  forty- 
five  to  fifty.     He  has  a  strong  intellectual 


6  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

face;  sensitive  mobile  features,  with  fre- 
quently changing  play  of  humour  and 
melancholy  ;  kind  penetrating  eyes  ;  a 
tender  caressing  voice  ;  calm,  restrained, 
professional  manner.  He  comes  very 
affectionately  to  BROOKER,  takes  his 
hand,  holds  it  some  moments  without 
speaking?) 

DR.  C.     My  dear  fellow,  I  knew  you'd  come. 
BROOKER.     Why,  of  course.     I  didn't  understand 
your  letter. 

DR.  C.     I  want  to  consult  you  about  myself. 

(BROOKER    looks    astonished.      DR.    CAREY 
motions   him   to  a   seat.      During   the 
following  scene  BROOKER  is  seated.    DR. 
CAREY  sometimes  sits,  sometimes  stands, 
sometimes  walks  about.) 
BROOKER.     What's  the  matter  ? 
DR.  C.      Everything.       Nothing.      You'll   call   it 
neurasthenia,  and  you'll  give  me  some  placebo,  which 
I  shan't  believe  in,  and  which  I  shan't  take. 

BROOKER.  But  I'm  only  a  country  practitioner. 
The  best  man  for  nerves  is  Lewin  Carey,  39  Cavendish 
Square.  Why  don't  you  go  to  him  ? 

DR.  C.  I  have,  but  he  only  laughs  at  me  and 
says:  "Physician,  heal  thyself."  That's  the  one 
thing  that  rings  constantly  in  my  ears  day  and  night, 
"Physician,  heal  thyself!  Physician,  heal  thyself." 
I  can't,  Brooker. 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  7 

BROOKER.     Go  on.     Tell  me  all. 

DR.  C.  My  dear  old  fellow,  have  patience  with 
me!  The  last  fifteen  years,  while  you've  been 
comfortably  ploughing  and  whistling  on  your  way 
amongst  rural  measles  and  accouchements,  I've  stood 
here  an  open  receptacle  for  all  the  nervous  diseases 
of  the  age  to  be  poured  into.  And  the  mischief  is, 
Brooker,  I'm  so  sympathetic,  I've  caught  them  all. 

BROOKER.     You're  a  little  overworked. 

DR.  C.  No,  it's  not  that.  I'm  just  at  the  prime 
of  life  with  a  splendid  constitution.  I'm  getting  to 
the  top  of  my  profession,  I'm  richer  than  my  needs, 
I'm  honoured,  feted,  envied — and  yet,  by  God, 
Brooker,  I  don't  believe  there's  in  any  London  slum, 
or  jail,  or  workhouse,  a  poor  wretch  with  such  a 
horrible  despair  in  his  heart  as  I  have  to-day. 

BROOKER.  You  know  the  causes  of  nervous 
breakdown.  What  past  excess  is  calling  on  you  for 
payment  ? 

DR.  C.  My  youth  was  pretty  much  about  the 
average.  I  don't  pretend  to  justify  it.  I  don't 
pretend  to  regret  it.  If  any  past  excess  is  calling  on 
me  for  payment  now,  it's  excess  of  work  rather  than 
excess  of  pleasure. 

BROOKER.  And  since  your  youth?  (Pause.}  Is 
there  any  woman  in  this  business,  Carey  ? 

DR.  C.  I've  had  an  attachment  for  some  years 
past.  I  won't  tell  you  her  name,  though  you  can 
easily  learn  it  if  you  care  to  inquire.  Seven  years  ago 


8  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

I  met  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  London. 
She  had  married  a  blackguard,  who  neglected  her. 
And  certainly  she  had  as  much  excuse  as  ever  a 
woman  had  for  forming  other  ties.  Her  husband  has 
lived  abroad  for  years,  and  practically  doesn't  exist. 
I  go  out  very  little,  as  you  know,  but  she  goes  a  great 
deal  into  society. 

BROOKER.     And  what  has  society  said  to  this  ? 

DR.  C.  Society,  with  its  perfect  good -nature,  its 
perfect  tact  and  sympathy  with  a  genuine  attachment 
such  as  ours,  has  nodded  and  smiled,  and  whispered 
no  doubt,  but  has  never  openly  said  one  word  against 
her. 

BROOKER.     This  attachment — does  it  continue  ? 

DR.  C.  No.  For  some  time  I  have  felt  that  she 
has  cared  for  me  less  and  less.  When  I  came  back 
from  Egypt  a  month  ago  I  found  a  letter  from  her, 
breaking  it  off. 

BROOKER.     And  you've  not  seen  her  ? 

DR.  C.  No,  she's  travelling  abroad.  I've  written 
to  her  several  times  begging  her  to  return,  but  she 
hasn't  replied. 

BROOKER.  And  so  you're  steadily  breaking  your 
heart  for  this  woman  ? 

DR.  C.  I  miss  her  terribly — hourly.  She  was 
such  a  delightful  companion.  But  though  I've  loved 
her  deeply,  and  she  has  loved  me — after  a  fashion — 
I've  never  rested  in  her  love.  I've  always  known  her 
to  be  a  coquette — a  flaming,  intellectual  coquette — 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  9 

whose  very  attractions  make  it  impossible  for  her  to 
be  constant.  Good  God,  Brooker !  are  any  of  us 
constant  to  anybody,  or  to  anything,  or  to  ourselves 
— even  our  worst  selves  ?  Don't  let  me  maunder  any 
more  about  her.  She  isn't  the  matter  with  me — or  if 
she  is,  she's  not  all  the  matter  with  me.  I  go  deeper 
than  that. 

BROOKER.     What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 

DR.  C.  I  tell  you  I've  caught  the  disease  of  our 
time,  of  our  society,  of  our  civilisation. 

BROOKER.     What's  that  ? 

DR.  C.  Middle  age.  Disillusionment.  My  youth's 
gone.  My  beliefs  are  gone.  I  enjoy  nothing.  I 
believe  in  nothing. 

BROOKER.  There's  no  cure  for  lost  youth,  I'm 
afraid.  But  for  lost  belief 

DR.  C.  The  cure  for  that  is  to  turn  churchwarden 
and  go  round  with  the  plate  on  Sundays,  I  suppose. 

BROOKER.  Don't  sneer  at  us  poor  fools  who  do 
still  believe  in  something. 

DR.  C.  Sneer  at  you  !  I  envy  you.  Belief ! 
That's  the  placebo  I  want.  That  would  cure  me. 

BROOKER.     Don't  you  believe  in  your  work  ? 

DR.  C.  My  work  means  nothing  to  me.  Success 
means  nothing  to  me.  I  cure  people  with  a  grin  and 
a  sneer.  I  keep  on  asking  myself,  "To  what  end? 
To  what  end  ?  " 

BROOKER.  Come  and  dress,  let's  get  an  early 
dinner  and  go  to  a  music  hall. 


io  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

DR.  C.     That's  your  placebo,  is  it  ? 

BROOKER.  Surely,  Carey,  you  must  know  there's 
nothing  the  matter  with  you. 

DR.  C.  Don't  I  tell  you  there's  nothing  the  matter 
with  me,  and  that  I  can  endure  it  no  longer.  Brooker, 
my  practice  is  a  very  valuable  one.  I  want  you  to 
take  it  up  and  carry  it  on. 

BROOKER.     You're  not  in  earnest  ? 

DR.  C.  Indeed  I  am.  We'll  talk  it  over  at  dinner. 
Don't  argue  with  me,  I've  made  up  my  mind. 

BROOKER.     And  you — what  will  you  do  ? 

DR.  C.     I  don't  know. 

BROOKER.     Where  will  you  go  ? 

DR.  C.     I  don't  know. 

BROOKER.     Surely  you  have  some  plan  ? 

DR.  C.  None  in  this  world,  except  to  walk  out  of 
that  door  and  let  it  clang  for  ever  on  my  present  self. 
I  want  a  new  impulse,  a  new  outlook  on  life — no, 
I  want  a  new  life  itself.  I  may  go  to  India.  I'm 
interested  in  these  cholera  experiments. 

BROOKER.     To  what  end  ? 

DR.  C.  Ah,  to  what  end?  To  save  life.  To 
what  end  ?  I  can't  tell  you.  But  I've  still  got  the 
healing  instinct  strong  within  me  in  spite  of  what  I've 
told  you;  if  any  poor  devil  suffering  from  some 
mortal  disease  were  to  come  in  at  that  door  and  ask 
me  to  help  him,  I  should  fling  myself  heart  and  soul 
into  his  case  and  fight  like  a  tiger  to  pull  him  through. 
And  all  the  time  my  grinning,  sneering,  second  self 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  u 

would  be  standing  beside  me  and  asking  me  "To 
what  end?  To  what  end?"  (With  a  gesture  of 
weariness  and  despair?)  Let  me  get  out  of  this, 
Brooker.  Come  in  as  soon  as  you  can  and  set  me 
free. 

Enter  VICCARS  at  back>  with  lady's  visiting  card  on 
tray,  which  he  brings  to  DR.  CAREY.  DR.  CAREY 
takes  card)  shows  great  delight. 

VICCARS.     Lady  is  waiting  in  the  next  room,  sir. 

(Going  off  at  back.} 

DR.  C.  (in  a  low  tone  to  BROOKER,  showing  great 
feeling).     It's  she.     She  has  come  back  to  me  ! 

BROOKER.     I've  a  letter  or  two  to  write.     Perhaps 
Viccars  will  show  me  to  my  room. 

VICCARS  (at  door  at  back).    This  way,  sir.   (Exit.} 
DR.  C.  (with  great  feeling).     I  was  wrong,  Brooker. 
I  care  for  her  more  than  I  know.     It's  her  absence 
that  has  ailed  me.     I  shall  be  well  now. 

(BROOKER  wrings  CAREY'S  hand  with  great 
cordiality^    and   exit    at    back.        DR. 
CAREY  goes  to  door  L.,  opens  it.) 
DR.  C.     Val ! 

Enter  door  at  back  LADY  VALERIE  CAMVILLE,  a  hand- 
some woman  about  thirty-three ;  bright  red  hair, 
large  brown  eyes  with  a  merry  twinkle  ;  high  fore- 
head;  rather  large  mouth  with  great  expression  ;  a 


12  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  I 

face  with  beauty,  intellectuality,  and  humour,  with- 
out spirituality.  DR.  CAREY  goes  to  her  with  the 
utmost  tenderness  and  respect,  kisses  her  hand  softly 
two  or  three  times,  then  holds  it  tenderly,  looking 
at  her  with  great  affection. 

DR.  C.     You  got  my  letters  ? 

LADY  V.  Yes.  ( Withdraws  her  hand.)  You 
begged  me  at  least  to  see  you  and  say  "  Good-bye." 
Your  last  letter  was  so  piteous,  I  couldn't  help  coming. 
(Holding  out  hand  in  the  frankest  way.)  Good-bye. 

DR.  C.  (cut  to  the  quick).  You've  not  come  to 
say  that  ?  (Doesn't  take  her  hand.) 

LADY  V.  Indeed  I  have.  If  you  remember  we 
made  a  compact  at  the  beginning  of  our  friend- 
ship  

DR.  C.  Our  friendship  !  We  were  friends,  were 
we  not  ? 

LADY  V.  We  were  very  good  friends  indeed,  and 
we  very  sensibly  agreed  that  the  moment  we  began  to 
feel  the  least  little  bit  tired  of  each  other,  the  moment 
boredom  supervened,  we  would  have  the  courage  to 
own  the  truth  and — part. 

(Again  offering  hand,  which  he  doesrit  take.) 

DR.  C.  ( piteous ly).     Are  you  tired  of  me,  Val? 

LADY  V.  Not  at  the  present  moment.  Altogether, 
I  think  you  bear  the  test  of  constant  companionship 
better  than  most  men  would.  (Smiling  at  him. )  Still, 
my  dear  Lewin,  don't  let  us  blink  the  horrible  fact 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  13 

that  boredom  has  supervened.  That  Sunday  at 
Henley  last  year  ! 

DR.  C.     Oh,  a  wet  English  Sunday  ! 

LADY  V.  No  amount  of  British  climate  or  British 
Sunday  can  excuse  a  man  for  treating  a  woman  as  if 
she  had  been  married  to  him  for  a  dozen  years ! 
Besides,  boredom  has  supervened  on  other  occasions. 

DR.  C.  (jealously}.  Val — you've  not — you've  not 
met  any  one  else  ? 

LADY  V.     Ah  !   you  shouldn't  ask  me  that ! 

DR.  C.     Why  not  ? 

LADY  V.  Because  you  know  I  should  tell  the 
biggest  of  big  fibs,  rather  than  give  you  pain. 

DR.  C.     Then  you  have  ? 

LADY  V.  No.  I've  only  thought  matters  over. 
(Again  offering  hand.)  Good-bye. 

DR.  C.  I  can't  say  it.  What  reason  is  there  for 
us  to  part  ? 

LADY  V.  Our  friendship  must  end  some  day  and 
somehow.  Think.  How  would  you  wish  it  to  end  ? 
In  a  yawn  ?  In  a  squabble  ?  In  a  scandal  ? 

DR.  C.     I  should  wish  it  to  end  in — death. 

LADY  V.  Would  you  ?  Now  that's  the  very  last 
way  in  which  I  should  wish  it  to  end.  At  least,  if  it's 
my  death  you  mean. 

DR.  C.     Why  not  the  scandal  ? 

LADY  V.  (looks  at  him  questioningly).  You'd  be 
obliged  to  marry  me  ! 

DR.  C.     Obliged  ?     Dare  you  face  it  ? 


I4  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

LADY  V.  Gracious,  no!  To  sink  into  social. ex- 
tinction in  a  bog  of  newspaper  mud  !  No,  trust  me, 
this  is  our  fine  artistic  moment  for  bidding  each  other 
adieu.  We  part  with  the  pleasantest  memories  of  the 
past,  with  the  best  wishes  for  the  future,  and  with  just 
the  merest  shade  of  regret  (looks  at  him  roguishly^ 
sighs)  •  at  least,  on  my  side. 

DR.  C.  On  your  side  there  will  be  the  merest  shade 
of  regret.  On  my  side  there  will  be  despair. 

LADY  V.  And  so  there  should  be  !  Anything  less 
than  despair  for  some  months,  or  at  least  weeks, 
would  be  uncomplimentary  to  me. 

DR.  C.  (coming  to  her  passionately).  Val,  don't  tor- 
ture me  !  I  can't  let  you  go.  (About  to  clasp  her.) 

LADY  V.  (shaking  her  head,  warning  him  off  with 
her  forefinger).  I  leave  for  Scotland  to-night. 

DR.  C.     Scotland  !     What  for  ? 

LADY  V.  To  escape  boredom.  I  see  it  still 
hovering,  ready  to  close  impenetrably  round  us  the 
moment  we  take  up  our  old  lives. 

DR.  C.  Why  should  we  take  up  our  old  lives? 
Val,  take  up  a  new  life  with  me  from  to-day — from 
this  moment. 

LADY  V.     New  life  !     How  ?    Where  ? 

DR.  C.  Anywhere !  I'm  leaving  London,  giving 
up  my  practice — 

LADY  V.  My  dear  Lewin,  what  strange  freak  is 
this? 

DR.  C.     It's  no  freak.     If  I  stay  in  London  I  shall 


ACT  i  THE  PHYSICIAN  15 

come  to  some  miserable  end.  I  shall  either  go  mad, 
or  commit  suicide,  or  become  a  fashionable  London 
physician.  I  don't  want  to  do  either.  I've  got  thirty 
good  years  of  life  in  front  of  me. 

LADY  V.  And  how  do  you  propose  to  spend 
them? 

DR.  C.     In  work.     In  duty. 

LADY  V.  Duty  ?  H'm  !  That's  some  article  for 
the  consumption  of  the  great  middle  classes,  isn't  it  ? 
Like  the  things  they  get  at  Whiteley's  and  the  Stores. 
I'm  sure  it  isn't  for  the  elect — for  you  and  me.  What 
work  ?  What  duty  ? 

DR.  C.  I  should  like  to  go  to  India  and  thor- 
oughly work  out  these  cholera  experiments. 

LADY  V.  And  to  boredom  add  ghastliness.  I 
don't  want  to  go  microbe-hunting  in  India.  I  like 
big  game. 

DR.  C.  Very  well.  We'll  travel,  go  where  you 
please,  do  what  you  please.  Only  (very  piteously) 
don't  leave  me,  Val.  These  last  few  weeks  since 
you've  been  away  I've  had  a  horrible  time.  I  couldn't 
tell  what  ailed  me.  When  I  knew  that  you  had  come 
back,  my  heart  began  to  beat  again.  My  hand 
trembled  when  I  took  your  card  just  now,  and  when 
you  came  into  the  room,  didn't  you  see,  I  could 
scarcely  speak  for  joy  ? 

LADY  V.  (a  little  touched).  My  poor  Lewin,  I 
didn't  know  you  cared  so  much  for  me. 

DR.  C.     I  didn't  know  it  myself  till  I  had  lost  you. 


1 6  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

Val,  come  back  to  me.  I  cling  to  you  !  You  are  all 
I  have  in  the  world  !  Take  me,  do  what  you  please 
with  me  !  Make  me  at  least  believe  in  you  !  What 
is  it  you  want  ?  Is  it  love  ?  I'll  give  you  all  I  have 
to  the  last  drain  of  my  heart.  Is  it  marriage  ?  I'll 
face  the  disgrace  with  you,  shelter  you  from  it  so  far 
as  I  can.  Val,  I  offer  you  my  heart  and  my  name 
with  all  the  respect  and  worship  of  my  nature,  (Long 
pause.)  What  do  you  say? 

(She  has  listened  with  great  attention  and  is  a 
little  moved  by  his  passionate  pleading, 
stands  as  if  undecided,  then  looks  at  him 
pityingly,  sighs,  speaks  in  a  firm  matter- 
of-fact,  but  not  unkind  tone.) 

LADY  V.     I'm  very  sorry.      But  it  must  be  adieu — 
and  now. 

DR.  C.     Don't  leave  me,  Val. 
LADY  V.     I  must  be  in  Scotland  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  I  must  catch  the  train. 
DR.  C.     Don't  leave  me,  Val. 
LADY  V.     What  a  heavenly  attitude  of  melancholy 
you  have  ! 

DR.  C.     Don't  leave  me,  Val. 
LADY  V.     Alas,  poor  dear !  I  must !     (Blows  him 
a  kiss.)     Good-bye.  (Exiti..) 

(She  closes  the  door  after  her.  He  stands, 
looks  after  her,  his  hands  tightly  clasped 
in  front  of  him  ;  his  features  hardening, 
his  eyes  fixed,  Ms  whole  attitude  one  of 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  17 

great  mental  anguish  changing  into  de- 
spair. A  long  pause.  VICCARS  slowly 
and  timidly  opens  door  at  back  and 
looks  in.) 

VICCARS.     Are  you  engaged,  sir  ? 
DR.  C.  (relaxing  his  strained  attitude  with  an  effort, 
speaking  in  an  intensely  calm  tone).     No.     What  is  it  ? 
VICCARS    (enters,    brings   in   card  on  salver).      A 
young  lady  says  she  appointed  to  meet  her  father  here 
at  half-past  five.     He  hasn't  come,  and  she  wishes  to 
know  if  you  could  see  her  for  a  few  minutes. 
DR.  C.     Show  her  in. 

(VICCARS  goes,  leaves  door  open.  DR.  CAREY 
walks  listlessly  across  the  room.  Re- 
enter  VICCARS,  at  back,  showing  in 
EDANA  HINDE,  a  bright,  eager  girl,  not 
quite  twenty,  prettily  dressed,  but  a  little 
countrified.") 

VICCARS.     Miss  Hinde.  (.£#// VICCARS.) 

EDANA.  I'm  so  sorry  to  trouble  you.  My  father 
arranged  to  meet  me  here,  but  he  has  gone  to  some 
old  bookshops,  and  I  daresay  he  has  forgotten  all 
about  me. 

DR.  C.  Will  you  be  seated?  (She  sits.)  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ? 

EDANA.  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you.  You 
won't  think  it  very  strange  of  me — I  wanted  to  ask 
you  about  somebody  else —  (A  pause.) 

DR.  C.     Go  on. 

c 


i8  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

EDANA  (a  little  embarrassed}.  His  life  is  so  valu- 
able. You  must  have  heard  his  name — Mr.  Walter 
Amphiel. 

DR.  C.  Amphiel?  Amphiel?  Oh  yes,  the  man 
who  is  making  all  this  stir  about  the  temperance 
question. 

EDANA.     He  is  giving  his  life  to  it. 

DR.  C.     He  is  a  friend  of  yours  ? 

EDANA.     Yes.     (Pause.}     I  am  to  be  his  wife. 

DR.  C.     And  you  wish ? 

EDANA.  He  gives  himself  to  the  work  night  and 
day.  He  is  killing  himself  for  others. 

DR.  C.  Then  he  is  unjust  to  himself  and  to 
you. 

EDANA.  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  for  me.  But  I 
want  his  life  to  be  spared. 

DR.  C.  And  you  wish  me  to  see  him  and  persuade 
him  to  give  it  up  ? 

EDANA.  Oh  no,  he  wouldn't  give  up  the  work ! 
And  I  wouldn't  have  him !  We  have  both  put  our 
hands  to  the  plough.  And  (very  glowingly)  I  wish 
nothing  better  for  either  of  us  than  to  die  for  our 
cause  if  need  were.  (He  is  looking  at  her  with  interest 
and  a  little  astonishment.}  I  beg  pardon,  you  don't 
understand  me. 

DR.  C.  I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  wish 
me  to  do. 

EDANA.  I  want  you  to  see  him  and  advise  him 
how  to  take  care  of  his  health. 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  19 

DR.  C.  Certainly.  Send  him  to  me  to-morrow 
morning. 

EDANA.  He  won't  come.  He  has  a  great  dislike 
to  seeing  doctors,  and  when  I  beg  him  he  only  smiles 
at  me,  and  says  he  shall  live  long  enough.  But  I  can 
see  such  a  change  in  him  the  last  few  months.  He 
grows  paler  and  thinner,  and  more  careworn.  Couldn't 
you  come  to  him  ? 

DR.  C.     Where? 

EDANA.     We  live  at  Fontleas,  near  Buxenham. 

DR.  C.     Is  he  there  now  ? 

EDANA.  No.  He  is  passing  though  London 
to-day  on  his  way  to  the  Temperance  Congress  at 
Southampton  to-morrow.  Couldn't  you  come  to 
Fontleas,  unknown  to  him,  and  stay  a  day  or  two 
and  watch  him,  and  find  out  all  about  him,  and  tell 
me  what  to  do  ? 

DR.  C.     It  would  be  very  unusual. 

EDANA.     Would  it  be  impossible  ? 

DR.  C.     You  are  very  much  concerned  for  him. 

EDANA.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much !  He  is 
so  good,  and  gentle,  and  unselfish !  He  came  into  a 
large  fortune  last  year.  He  is  giving  it  all  away  to 
the  cause.  Isn't  it  great  of  him  to  give  up  everything 
for  others  ? 

DR.  C.     What  made  you  come  to  me  ? 

EDANA.  We've  been  reading  about  your  journey 
to  Egypt  and  how  you  saved  the  Pasha's  life.  Yours 
must  be  splendid  work,  too  !  I've  often  thought  that 


20  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

if  I  were  a  man  I  should  like  to  be  a  doctor.  (She 
sees  DR.  CAREY  is  watching  her,  stops  suddenly^  con- 
fused^) I  beg  your  pardon.  Could  you  come  to 
Fontleas  ? 

DR.  C.  Certainly  I  could  come.  I  come  to 
Buxenham  occasionally.  I  send  some  of  my  patients 
there  for  the  waters.  By  the  way,  isn't  there  a  well 
or  a  spring  at  Fontleas  ? 

EDANA.  Yes,  a  holy  well.  You've  heard  of 
it? 

DR.  C.     I  think  I  have.     Saint — Saint 

EDANA.  Saint  Edana's  well.  It  had  great  healing 
properties  in  the  middle  ages.  Pilgrims  used  to  come 
there  from  all  parts,  and  thousands  were  cured  by 
drinking  its  waters. 

DR.  C.  In  the  middle  ages.  And  now  they  have 
come  to  me. 

EDANA.     Oh,  we've  had  some  cures  in  this  century. 

DR.  C.     Indeed. 

EDANA.  My  father  is  Vicar  of  Fontleas,  and  he's 
writing  a  life  of  Saint  Edana. 

DR.  C.     Saint  Edana  !     It's  an  uncommon  name. 

EDANA.     I  was  named  after  her. 

DR.  C.     Saint  Edana  !     It's  a  pretty  name. 

(A  pause?) 

EDANA  (rising).  I'm  taking  up  your  valuable 
time 

DR.  C.     When  will  Mr.  Amphiel  be  at  Fontleas  ? 

EDANA.     He  lives  there.     But  he's  often  away  for 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  21 

weeks  together  on  temperance  work.     I  could  let  you 

know.     Will  you  come  and  see  him  ? 

DR.  C.     If  there  is  anything  I  can  do 

EDANA.     Then  you  will  come  !     How  kind  of  you ! 

But  I'm  sure  when  you  know  him  you'll  think  his  life 

worth  all  your  care. 

DR.  C.     If  he  is  dear  to  you  I'm  sure  it  must  be. 

Enter  VICCARS  at  back,  showing  in  the  REVEREND 
PEREGRINE  HINDE,  a  very  quaint  old  country 
clergyman,  rather  over  sixty,  with  very  bright  eyes, 
pleasant  features,  indicating  a  mixture  of  shrewd- 
ness and  simplicity.  He  has  a  habit  of  humming 
little  snatches  of  sacred  tunes  to  himself,  and  punctu- 
ates nearly  every  sentence  with  a  hearty  little  chuckle 
at  his  own  small  wit.  He  carries  two  or  three 
large  old  volumes  under  his  arm. 

VICCARS  (announcing).     Mr.  Hinde. 

(Exit  VICCARS.) 

REV.  P.  (comes  up  to  DR.  CAREY,  humming  a  little 
snatch,  leaves  off  abruptly).  Dr.  Carey?  (DR.  CAREY 
bows.}  I've  been  with  the  saints  all  the  afternoon. 
(  Tapping  the  books  under  his  arm. )  And  in  their  society 
I  forgot  all  about  you.  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me. 

DR.  C.  Certainly.  From  the  little  I  know  of 
the  saints  I'm  sure  they  must  be  far  more  agreeable 
company  than  I  am. 

REV.  P.  Not  more  agreeable,  but  say  more  profit- 
able— for  a  man  of  my  age.  You  see,  I  may  have  to 


22  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

meet  them  in  a  few  years,  and  I  shouldn't  like  not 
to  feel  quite  at  home  amongst  them.  (Chuckles  and 
hums.)  Now,  Edana,  what  is  to  be  done  about 
Walter? 

EDANA.  Dr.  Carey  has  promised  to  come  to 
Fontleas  to  see  him. 

REV.  P.  The  poor  boy  is  working  himself  to  death 
in  the  cause  of  temperance.  Dear  me,  how  very  in- 
temperate all  these  good  temperance  folks  are,  aren't 
they  ?  Still,  it's  a  good  cause — a  sacred  cause.  I 
used  to  take  my  glass  of  wine  and  I  used  to  enjoy  it. 
Walter  has  persuaded  me  to  give  it  up.  I  miss  it 
(regretfully),  still  it's  a  good  cause — a  sacred  cause. 
And  may  I  ask  what  your  fee  will  be  for  coming  to 
Fontleas,  Dr.  Carey? 

DR.  C.     Oh,  don't  trouble  about  that,  Mr  Hinde. 

REV.  P.  Oh,  but  I  must.  I'm  not  rich.  My  stipend 
for  doctoring  men's  souls  is  two  hundred  and  forty 
pounds  per  annum,  or  thirteen  shillings  a  day.  I 
hope  you  don't  consider  doctoring  men's  bodies  is 
worth  more  than  (a  little  hum)  say  ten  times  as  much 
as  doctoring  their  souls  ? 

DR.  C.  That  all  depends  upon  the  doctor.  I'll 
come  to  Fontleas  and  see  Mr.  Amphiel.  But  we 
won't  say  anything  about  the  fee  till  I've  done  my 
work.  Is  there  any  place  at  Fontleas  where  I  can  stay? 

REV.  P.  We  can  offer  you  the  hospitality  of  the 
Vicarage. 

DR.  C.     You're  very  kind,  but  I'm  going  to  take 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  23 

a  long  rest  from  my  practice,  and  I  might  possibly  stay 
some  considerable  time.     Is  there  a  comfortable  inn  ? 

REV.  P.  I'm  afraid  there  isn't.  We  are  all  such 
staunch  temperance  folks  at  Fontleas  that  we  feel 
bound  to  make  people  who  drink  as  uncomfortable 
as  we  can,  don't  we,  Edana?  (Chuckles?) 

EDANA.  There's  Granny  Barton's.  She  has  one 
or  two  very  large  comfortable  rooms. 

DR.  C.     What  is  her  address  ? 

EDANA.     The  Abbot's  Kitchen,  Fontleas. 

DR.  C.     The  Abbot's  Kitchen  ? 

REV.  P.  It  was  the  Abbot's  Kitchen,  but  there 
being  no  further  use  for  abbots,  and  no  further  use 
for  good  living  in  Fontleas,  it  was  turned  into  a 
farmhouse.  And '  now  there  being  no  further  use  in 
England  for  farms  and  farmhouses,  the  poor  old 
creature  has  sold  her  land  and  lets  her  rooms  to 
visitors  from  Buxenham. 

EDANA.     She's  a  dear  old  soul. 

REV.  P.  And  she  so  far  sustains  the  traditions  of 
the  spot  that  she  can  cook  a  very  good  dinner. 

DR.  C.  (making  a  note).  The  Abbot's  Kitchen. 
Very  well.  I'll  come  to  Fontleas  as  soon  as  I  can 
get  away  from  London. 

(The  REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE  takes  up  his 
books.  EDANA  picks  up  the  book  which 
AMPHIEL  has  left,  glances  at  the  title, 
shows  interest,  looks  at  it  during  the 
following  conversation.} 


24  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

DR.  C.  (touching  the  books  which  the  REV.  PERE- 
GRINE HINDE  is  taking  up).  Your  lore  is  very  different 
from  mine. 

REV.  P.     Yes,  so  much  more  interesting. 

DR.  C.     Why? 

REV.  P.  Don't  you  think  men's  souls  are  more 
interesting  than  their  bodies  ? 

DR.  C.     I  never  saw  a  man's  soul. 

REV.  P.  I  never  saw  a  mother's  love,  but  I'm  sure 
it's  about  the  realest  thing  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

EDANA  (who  has  been  looking  at  the  book).  How 
very  curious  ! 

DR.  C.     What? 

EDANA.     This  book  on  Alcoholic  Mania. 

DR.  C.  Yes,  it's  interesting.  But  the  author 
rides  his  theory  that  drunkenness  is  a  disease  a  little 
too  hard.  (Edana  continues  reading.}  Miss  Hinde 
tells  me  you  are  writing  a  life  of  Saint  Edana. 

REV.  P.  Yes,  it's  very  puzzling.  One  history 
recounts  that  she  went  to  Cornwall  and  died  there  at 
the  age  of  twenty,  the  most  glorious  visions  being 
vouchsafed  to  all  around  her  as  her  spirit  passed  away. 

DR.  C.     Ah  !     I've  been  to  Cornwall— 

REV.  P.  But  you  saw  no  visions  ?  No,  it's  a  rare 
faculty,  and  it  seems  to  be  growing  rarer.  We  who 
have  it  are  highly  favoured.  (Chuckles  and  hums.} 
Another  account  says  that  as  Saint  Edana  was  cross- 
ing to  Ireland  at  the  age  of  fifty,  the  ship  was  over- 
taken in  a  storm.  And  while  the  mariners  cursed 


ACT  i  THE  PHYSICIAN  25 

and  blasphemed,  she  prayed  that  her  life  alone  might 
be  taken  and  all  the  others  spared  to  repent.  And 
so  it  was. 

DR.  C.     And  another  history  recounts ? 

REV.  P.     That  she  died  full  of  good  works  at  the 

age  of  ninety  on  the  spot  where  my  vicarage  now  stands. 

DR.  C.     And  which  history  do  you  believe  ? 

REV.  P.     All  three.     (Hums  and  chuckles^     You 

see,  so  many  people  nowadays  believe  in  nothing  at 

all,  it  does  no  harm  to  have  a  few  old-fashioned  folks 

like   myself,    who   believe   a  great    deal  too   much, 

believe  everything  that's  told  them — so  long  as  it's 

beautiful  and  helpful !     Good-bye,  Dr.  Carey.     Come, 

Edana ! 

(Exit  at  back)  humming  and  chuckling^  his 

books  under  his  arm.} 

EDANA  (puts  down  book).     Then  we  shall  see  you 
at  Fontleas  ? 

DR.  C.     In  about  a  week.          (Shaking  hands.} 
EDANA.     Thank  you  !     Thank  you  !     Oh,  if  you 

can  give  him  health  and  strength 

(Her  .  eyes  fill  with  tears.  Exit  at  back 
hurriedly.  DR.  CAREY  stands  looking 
after  her  for  some  moments  as  if  deeply 
interested ;  comes  down  stage.} 

BROOKER  enters  at  the  open  door. 

DR.  C.     Brooker,  make  haste  and  come  into  my 
practice.     I  want  to  get  away. 


26  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  I 

BROOKER.     Where  ? 

DR.  C.  Did  you  see  that  girl  who  went  out? 
Her  lover  is  ill — dying,  she  says.  She  wants  me  to 
come  and  see  him. 

BROOKER.     And  you're  going  ? 

DR.  C.  Why  not?  Why  not  there  as  well  as 
anywhere  ?  Why  not  that  as  well  as  anything  else  ? 

BROOKER.  You  mean  to  give  up  this  splendid 
practice,  your  position,  your  career 

DR.  C.  I  tell  you  I  can't  stay  here,  especially 
after  to-day.  Besides,  this  man  Amphiel  has  a  great 
mission. 

BROOKER.     Mission  ? 

DR.  C.  He's  this  Walter  Amphiel,  the  man  who 
is  organising  the  temperance  movement. 

BROOKER.  And  do  you  agree  with  that  kind  of 
fanaticism  ? 

DR.  C.  Is  it  fanaticism  ?  The  girl's  face  glowed 
like  a  live  coal  when  she  spoke  of  her  cause  and  her 
lover.  How  she  loves  the  fellow !  Brooker,  it's 
better  to  be  a  fanatic  than  a  cynic. 

BROOKER.  It's  better  still  to  be  neither.  It's 
better  to  be  a  good  common-sense  citizen  and  pay 
your  rates  and  taxes. 

DR.  C.  No,  it  isn't.  Good  common-sense  citizens 
when  they  die — well,  they  think  they  go  to  heaven  or 
hell,  but  they  only  go  to  limbo — and  I  should  like  to 
go  to  heaven  or  hell;  the  latter  for  preference,  I 
think,  because  it's  only  when  we  suffer,  as  I'm 


ACT  I  THE  PHYSICIAN  27 

suffering  now,  that  we  can  make  sure  that  we're  alive. 
By  the  way,  did  you  take  down  that  book  of  Fuller's 
on  Alcoholic  Mania?  (Pointing  to  book  on  table.} 

BROOKER.  No,  I  found  a  young  fellow  here 
reading  it.  I  thought  I  remembered  his  face — in 
fact,  I'm  sure  I  did.  He  came  to  me  some  three  or 
four  years  ago.  He  puzzled  me.  I  fancied  at  the 
time,  from  a  hint  that  he  dropped,  that  he'd  been 
drinking  heavily. 

Re-enter  VICCARS  at  back. 

VICCARS.  A  gentleman  to  consult  you,  sir.  He 
won't  give  his  name. 

DR.  C.     Show  him  in.    (Exit  VICCARS  at  back} 

BROOKER  (taking  out  watch).  It's  almost  time  to 
dress  for  dinner.  You  said  nothing  more  about 

DR.  C.  She  only  came  to  say  "good-bye."  She 
has  said  it.  (A  very  bitter  laugh}  Brooker,  I'll  come 
with  you  to  a  music  hall  to-night. 

Re-enter  VICCARS,  L.,  showing  in  WALTER  AMPHIEL, 
who  meets  BROOKER  as  he  is  going  out.  AMPHIEL 
again  shows  slight  recognition,  and  avoids  looking 
at  BROOKER.  BROOKER  bows  slightly} 

(Exit  BROOKER  and  VICCARS  at  back} 

AMPHIEL.  Dr.  Carey,  I've  come  on  a  curious 
errand. 

(DR.  CAREY  points  to  a  chair,  looks  rather 


28  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  I 

fixedly  at  AMPHIEL,  who  remains  stand-  . 
ing  with  a  somewhat  embarrassed,  shifty 
manner.     DR.  CAREY  again  points  to 
chair.    AMPHIEL  sits.    DR.  CAREY  sits.) 

DR.  C.     What  can  I  do  for  you  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Nothing  for  myself.  I'm  in  excellent 
health,  as  you  can  see.  (With  a  smile.) 

DR.  C.     Go  on. 

AMPHIEL.  I've  come  to  ask  your  advice  about  a 
very  dear  friend  of  mine — almost  my  brother.  I've 
been  staying  with  him  lately,  and  to  my  horror  I 
discovered  that  he  gives  way  to  periodical  fits  of 
drunkenness.  I  tried  to  persuade  him  to  come  to 
you,  but  he  was  ashamed.  I  want  you  to  advise  me 
about  him. 

DR.  C.  I  couldn't  advise  you  without  seeing 
him.  I  don't  know  his  constitution  or  how  far  it 
is  impaired. 

AMPHIEL.  Oh,  I  don't  think  there  is  any  serious 
damage  done.  And  I  want  you  to  give  me  some 
general  rules  for  his  guidance.  Drunkenness  is  really 
a  disease,  isn't  it  ? 

DR.  C.  All  vice  is  disease.  All  evil  habits  are 
the  exact  expression  of  some  physical  derangement. 
An  evil  thought  signifies  that  the  brain  is  to  that 
extent  disordered,  the  same  as  an  attack  of  indiges- 
tion signifies  that  the  stomach  is  to  that  extent  dis- 
ordered. 

AMPHIEL.     But  we  can't  help  our  thoughts  !     My 


ACT  i  THE  PHYSICIAN  29 

friend  can't  help  these  fits  of  drunkenness.  I'm  sure 
he  can't !  Surely  you  can  advise  me  what  he  ought 
to  do? 

DR.  C.     How  often  do  these  outbreaks  occur  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Sometimes  every  month  or  two — some- 
times he  manages  to  control  himself  for  three  or  four 
months.  Then  suddenly  he  tells  me  he  has  this 
irresistible  craving  for  drink — it's  so  overwhelming  that 
he'd  lie,  or  steal,  or  murder  almost  to  get  it.  Then 
he  goes  away,  he  tells  me,  hides  from  his  friends,  and 
gives  way  to  drink  and — other  dissipation — at  least, 
so  I  gathered.  When  the  fit  is  over  he  spends  a  few 
awful  days  in  anguish  and  remorse,  and  then,  when 
he  is  sufficiently  recovered,  he  goes  back  to  his  home. 

DR.  C.     And  nobody  suspects  him  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Nobody.  Except  myself.  And  I  only 
found  it  out  by  the  merest  accident. 

DR.  C.     What  is  his  age  ? 

AMPHIEL  (slight  hesitation).     Thirty-one. 

DR.  C.  How  long  has  he  been  subject  to  these 
outbreaks  ? 

AMPHIEL.     About  five  or  six  years. 

DR.  C.  Did  they  come  on  gradually  from  con- 
stant and  little  drinking?  Or  did  they  begin  after 
some  one  definite  cause,  such  as  an  illness,  a  shock, 
a  bereavement,  or  an  accident?  How  did  they 
originate  ? 

AMPHIEL  (after  a  longish  pause).  He  told  me  all. 
He  ruined  a  girl  near  to  his  home.  She  brought  his 


30  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  i 

child  to  her  father  and  then  left  her  home  again, 
went  from  worse  to  worse,  and  drifted  away  nobody 
knows  where.  Her  mother  died  from  the  shame  and 
grief  and  my  friend  drank  to  drown  his  remorse.  Ever 
since  then,  at  intervals,  he  has  had  these  outbreaks. 

DR.  C.     What  is  his  occupation  ? 

AMPHIEL  (hesitates).     He — he 

DR.  C.  (rising).  You  had  better  send  your  friend 
to  some  good  physician. 

AMPHIEL  (rising).  But  can't  you  tell  me  what  to 
do  with  him  ?  Would  a  voyage  to  India  benefit  him  ? 

DR.  C.  I  couldn't  say.  Send  him  to  some  good 
physician.  What  is  he  afraid  of  ?  A  physician  knows 
nothing  of  shame.  Any  one  part  of  this  wonderful 
machine  that  gets  out  of  order  is  just  the  same  as 
another  to  him.  His  only  care  is  to  heal.  Come, 
now  (with  great  kindness  and  inviting  AMPHIEL'S 
confidence),  if  it  were  yourself,  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't 
hesitate  to  trust  me  ? 

(AMPHIEL  responds  with  a  movement  towards 
DR.  CAREY  as  if  about  to  give  DR. 
CAREY  all  his  confidence,  then  suddenly 
checks  himself  and  shows  some  embar- 
rassment.} 

AMPHIEL.  My  friend  is  in  a  position  of  great 
responsibility.  I  mustn't  betray  him  without  first 
consulting  him.  (Takes  out  purse.}  The  fee? 

DR.  C.     There  is  no  fee. 

AMPHIEL.     But  I 


ACT  i  THE  PHYSICIAN  31 

DR.  C.  There  is  no  fee  till  I  have  advised  your 
friend.  Good-day,  Mr. — I  didn't  catch  your  name 

AMPHIEL.     Mr. — a — Williams. 

DR.  C.     Mr.— a— Williams.  (Rings  bell.) 

AMPHIEL  (going,  turns).  It  is  a  disease,  isn't  it  ? 
I  may  tell  him  that  ?  He  can't  help  these  outbreaks  ? 

DR.  C.  (dryly,  coldly,  a  little  grimly].  Certainly  it 
is  a  disease.  But  don't  let  your  friend  lay  the 
flattering  unction  to  his  soul  that  he  can't  help  it,  for 
that  means  his  ruin.  It  is  a  disease,  and  the  worse 
he  has  it  the  more  he  must  help  it.  Has  he  a  wife  ? 

AMPHIEL.  No.  But  he's  engaged  to  the  dearest, 
most  innocent  girl — that's  the  madness  of  it  for  him. 

DR.  C.  It  may  one  day  be  the  madness  of  it  for 
her.  Won't  the  thought  of  her  save  him  ? 

AMPHIEL.  It  has  kept  him  from  the  worst — at 
times. 

DR.  C.  (very  significantly).  Let  it  keep  him  from 
the  worst — always.  ( VICCARS  appears  at  door  at  back. ) 
The  door,  Viccars. 

(Exit  VICCARS.  AMPHIEL  goes  out  slowly, 
irresolutely,  troubled ;  looks  back  at  DR. 
CAREY  as  he  goes  off.  DOCTOR  stands 
looking  after  him.) 

JRather  slow  Curtain. 
(Three  months  pass  between  Acts  I.  and  II.) 


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ACT  II 

SCENE — ST.  EDANA'S  WELL  AND  CHURCH  AT 
FONTLEAS 

The  churchyard  wall,  an  irregular  crumbling  mass  of 
weatherbeaten  stone  and  brick,  runs  across  the  stage 
diagonally ,  from  down  stage  R.  to  up  stage  L.  A 
large  carved  slab  of  stone  in  the  wall  forms  the  back 
of  the  well,  which  is  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  ;  the 
water  running  from  the  slab  forms  a  pool  which  is 
surrounded  by  a  low  thick  wall  of  crumbling  masonry 
about  two  feet  high  and  very  thick.  A  weeping 
•  willow  springs  from  the  pool  and  hangs  over  the 
well.  On  the  slab  is  carved  the  inscription  in  letters 
which  are  worn  and  scarcely  decipherable,  "  Whoso- 
ever drinketh  of  this  water  shall  thirst  again,  but 
whosoever  drinketh  of  the  water  that  I  shall  give 
him  shall  never  thirst. "  There  is  a  wicket  gate  in 
the  wall  at  back  just  to  R.  of  well,  and  another 
wicket  gate  at  extreme  corner  L.,  both  of  these  giving 
glimpses  of  landscape  in  evening  light.  A  few  steps 
lead  up  to  the  wicket  gate  R.  Down  stage  R.  the 
D 


34  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT 

trunk  of  an  old  elm  tree  with  a  seat  running  rou 
it.  On  the  L.  of  the  stage  going  up  to  the  con 
wicket  gate  is  the  Church  of  St.  Edana,  a  vt 
simple  Early  English  building  with  a  low  roof  a 
covered  with  ivy.  In  the  church  a  small  door,  a 
a  small  window,  formerly  the  lepers'  window,  si 
as  is  seen  in  many  old  churches. 
TIME  :  a  summer  Sunday  evening. 

Discover  DR.  CAREY  and  EDANA  seated  on  the  well. 
ED  ANA  is  in  a  dress  of  soft  white  muslin. 

DR.  C.  And  it  was  at  this  well  that  Saint  Edana 
worked  her  most  wonderful  cures.  What  diseases 
did  she  treat  ? 

EDANA.     All  kinds  of  diseases. 

DR.  C.     Like  a  patent  medicine. 

EDANA.     Yes — and  like  Nature. 

DR.  C.     Nature's  a  sad  bungler. 

EDANA.     No !     No ! 

DR.  C.  Yes !  Yes !  She's  terribly  careless  and 
terribly  cruel. 

EDANA.  No !  No !  I  won't  have  you  slander 
your  mother. 

DR.  C.     Tell  me  some  more  about  Saint  Edana. 

EDANA.  She  is  said  to  have  cured  many  lepers. 
You  see  that  little  round  window?  That  was  the 
lepers'  window  in  the  old  time.  They  weren't  allowed 
to  mix  with  the  congregation,  and  so  they  used  to 
come  there  and  join  in  the  services  from  outside. 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  35 

DR.  C.  The  lepers'  window !  That  was  my 
window. 

EDANA.  Yes,  I  saw  you  looking  through  it  this 
morning.  Are  you  coming  to  church  this  evening  ? 

DR.  C.  No.  I  feel  my  right  place  is  outside — 
with  the  lepers. 

EDANA.     You  seem  to  believe  in  nothing. 

DR.  C.     That's  my  disease. 

EDANA.  But  surely — surely  you  believe  in  your 
work.  (He  shakes  his  head  and  smiles?)  Then  why 
have  you  taken  so  much  trouble  with  all  my  poor 
people  ? 

DR.  C.  Mere  forge  of  habit.  I've  got  into  the 
way  of  curing  people  just  as  some  folks  get  into  the 
way  of  giving  coppers  to  beggars.  It  relieves  our 
feelings,  but  it's  a  very  bad  habit. 

EDANA.  A  bad  habit  to  give  life  ?  A  bad  habit 
to  relieve  pain?  Oh,  I  won't  have  you  speak  like 
this.  I'm  sure  life  is  good.  It's  good  to  have  it! 
It's  good  to  give  it !  It  is  !  It  is  !  I  don't  under 
stand  you. 

DR.  C.     How  is  that  ? 

EDANA.  You're  so  kind  and  gentle  to  everybody, 
and  so  sad  and  bitter  against  everything.  I've  often 
thought  I'd  ask  you  to  tell  me  your  history.  You've 
had  some  great  sorrow?  (She  looks  at  him  very 
sympathetically— he  assents.}  Ah!  (She  makes  a 
sympathetic  gesture  towards  him,  looks  at  him  with  real 
sympathy.}  But  you'll  get  over  it — you'll  conquer  it. 


36  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

DR.  C.  I  have  conquered  it.  But  it  has  left  me 
hopeless.  My  youth  lies  all  behind  me.  I'm  alone 
in  the  world.  I'm  like  a  traveller  who  turns  in  to 
rest  at  an  inn  for  an  hour  or  two — when  I  leave  you 
and  go  out  to  take  up  my  journey  again,  I  see  thirty 
years  of  life  in  front  of  me.  The  shadow  lies  upon 
all  of  them. 

EDANA.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  for  you  !  No,  I'm  not ! 
You're  young  yet !  It's  a  shame — it's  a  shame  to 
despair!  with  all  your  gifts !  and  just  in  the  prime  of  life. 

DR.  C.     Go  on  !     Go  on  ! 

EDANA.  Oh,  if  I  could  show  you  your  future  as  I 
see  it !  Can't  you  see  how  splendid  it  might  be  ? 
You  have  the  knowledge  and  the  skill !  You  are 
loved  and  believed  in  !  You've  only  to  put  your  hand 
to  it  and  to  do  it. 

DR.  C.     Go  on  !     Go  on  ! 

EDANA.  Oh;  I  wish  I  had  your  power !  I  wish  I 
could  make  people  well  and  glad  !  I  wish  I  could 
give  back  a  dying  wife  to  her  husband,  or  a  dying 
child  to  its  mother.  Oh,  I  must  make  you  do  it.  Do 
you  hear  ?  You  must  go  back  to  London  and  take 
up  your  work  !  You  mustn't  waste  your  time  here  ! 
You  must  go  ! 

DR.  C.  Don't  send  me  away — at  least,  not  yet. 
Let  me  stay  in  my  half-way  house  for  a  little  while 
longer,  and  then  perhaps  by  and  by  I  may  feel  stronger 
to  go  on  my  journey.  Besides,  you  forget,  I  came  to 
Fontleas  for  a  purpose. 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  37 

EDANA.  To  cure  Mr.  Amphiel — I  can't  think  why 
he  stays  away  so  long. 

DR.  C.     You've  not  heard  from  him  lately  ? 

EDANA.     Not  for  the  last  fortnight. 

DR.  C.     And  then  he  was  at  Genoa  ? 

EDANA.  Yes,  and  wrote  he  should  most  likely  take 
the  first  boat  back.  I  wish  he  had  stayed  at  Fontleas 
to  see  you. 

DR.  C.  He  left  the  very  day  before  I  came, 
didn't  he  ? 

EDANA.  Yes.  My  father  happened  to  say  you 
were  coming  and  that  started  him  away.  I  told  you 
he  dislikes  to  see  doctors. 

DR.  C.  But  he  says  the  long  voyage  has  restored 
him? 

EDANA  (shakes  her  head).  He  says  so.  He  will 
never  own  to  being  ill.  But  I  fear — oh,  my  instinct 
tells  me  he  is  not  better — that  he  never  will  be  better. 

DR.  C.     Why  do  you  fear  that  ? 

EDANA.  I  don't  know.  For  the  last  two  years  he 
has  been  growing  gradually  worse — I'm  sure  of  it — I 
can't  shut  my  eyes  to  it.  If  he  should  die  ! 

DR.  C.     You  love  him  very  much  ? 

(She  looks  at  him.    He  turns  away  and  shows  pain.} 

EDANA.  You  will  stay  at  Fontleas,  won't  you,  till 
you've  cured  him  ?  I  have  such  faith  in  you. 

DR.  C.     Have  you  ? 

EDANA.  I've  watched  you  with  my  poor  people. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is — you  are  so  different  from 


38  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

most  doctors.  Tell  me — there  is  something  strange 
about  you — something  almost  miraculous  ? 

DR.  C.  (shakes  his  head,  smiles].  No.  Nothing 
more  miraculous  than  the  everyday  perpetual  miracle 
of  the  power  of  the  mind,  will,  soul,  spirit — call  it 
what  you  like — over  the  body.  We  none  of  us  under- 
stand it.  It's  the  very  mystery  of  life  itself.  And 
when  a  case  interests  me  I  can't  leave  it.  I  feel  ready 
to  give  part  of  my  own  life  to  my  patient. 

ED  AN  A.  Suppose  Mr.  Amphiel's  case  interested  you  ? 

DR.  C.  Then  I  would  give  up  myself  entirely  to 
him  if 

EDANA.     If  what  ? 

DR.  C.     If  in  return  you  would  heal  me. 

EDANA.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

DR.  C.  I've  gone  astray.  I've  lost  my  clue. 
When  I  came  here  three  months  ago  I  had  no  faith, 
no  hope,  no  wish  to  live.  The  night  before  I  left 
town  I  had  almost  decided  to  end  it. 

EDANA.     Ah,  no 

DR.  C.  Yes.  It  was  the  thought  of  you  that  kept 
me  from  it,  the  thought  that  I  might  be  of  some  little 
use  and  help  to  you.  Since  I've  been  here  with  you 
I  have  gradually  found  my  faith  returning  to  me.  I 
begin  to  believe  again.  Ah!  it's  true,  this  power 
that  one  soul  has  over  another.  Don't  turn  away 
from  me  !  Heal  me  ! 

EDANA.  Heal  you  !  I  heal  you,  the  great  London 
physician  !  What  can  I  heal  you  of? 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  39 

DR.  C.  My  blindness  !  my  darkness  !  You  have 
the  wisdom  of  life  for  me.  You  can  give  me  back 
my  youth,  my  faith.  You  can  make  me  believe  in 
myself,  in  my  work — you  can  put  together  for  me  all 
the  broken  pieces  of  this  puzzle  of  a  world.  Oh  !  it's 
wise  to  believe  !  It's  wise  to  love  !  Heal  me  ! 

(She  goes  and  sits  on  the  well.) 
EDANA.     The  country  people  say  that  if  you  look 
long  enough  into  the  well  you  can  see  Saint  Edana's 
image  in  the  waters. 

DR.  C.  (goes  and  looks  down).  I  can  see  her  !  She 
is  in  white  !  I  believe  in  her  powers.  (EDANA  draws 
back.)  Give  me  one  cup  of  water  from  her  well. 

(EDANA  looks  at  him,  then  goes  and  fills  the 
stone  cup  and  gives  it  to  him.  DR. 
CAREY  takes  the  cup  and  drinks?) 

As  he  is  drinking  very  reverently ',  LADY  VALERIE,  very 
handsomely  dressed,  enters  at  the  wicket  gate  R. 
and  comes  down. 

LADY  V.     How  d'ye  do  ? 

DR.  C.     How  d'ye  do  ?  (Bowing.) 

LADY  V.  I've  interrupted  a  tete-a-tete.  I'm  so 
sorry.  (Glancing  at  EDANA.)  Perhaps  your  friend 
will  forgive  me. 

DR.  C.  (introducing).  Miss  Hinde — Lady  Valerie 
Camville. 

LADY  V.  (shaking  hands  with  EDANA).     How  do 


40  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

you  do?  We've  been  terribly  concerned  in  town 
about  Dr.  Carey.  We  lost  him  suddenly,  and  the 
wildest  rumours  have  been  afloat.  So,  as  I  was  stay- 
ing at  Buxenham,  I  thought  I'd  drive  over  and  learn 
the  truth.  (To  DR.  CAREY,  glancing  #/ EDANA.)  I've 
brought  you  a  message  from  a  friend  of  yours. 

EDANA.  It's  a  little  chilly,  I'll  step  over  to  the 
Vicarage  and  get  my  shawl.  (Exit  EDANA,  R.) 

LADY  V.  (looking  after  her).  Lewin,  I  think  she's 
charming. 

DR.  C.  I  scarcely  expected  to  see  you  in  Font- 
leas. 

LADY  V.  Evidently  not.  Or  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't 
have  been  so  ungallant  as  to  choose  the  very  moment 
of  my  arrival  for  making  love  to  another  woman. 

DR.  C.  You  are  mistaken.  I  was  not  making 
love  to  Miss  Hinde. 

LADY  V.  Oh,  my  dear  Lewin,  I  heard  you  as  I 
came  along;  no  woman  who  has  been  really  loved 
ever  mistakes  that  accent.  You  forget  that  you  have 
piped  that  same  tune  to  me. 

DR.  C.     No,  not  that  tune. 

LADY  V.  Yes,  that  same  tune.  It's  always  the 
same,  like  a  bullfinch's  ditty.  There  are  only  three 
notes  in  it — but  oh,  what  music  ! 

DR.  C.  Miss  Hinde  is  engaged  to  Mr.  Walter 
Amphiel,  and  is  devotedly  attached  to  him. 

LADY  V.  Is  she  ?  Then  why  pipe  to  her  if  she 
won't  dance  ?  Why  waste  your  music  on  her  when  I 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  41 

should  be  rather  glad  to  hear  a  note  or  two  of  the 
old  tune  ? 

DR.  C.     What  has  brought  you  to  Fontleas  ? 

LADY  V.  I've  been  bored.  I've  had  a  horrible 
whiff  of  middle-age  the  last  few  weeks. 

DR.  C.     You  !     Impossible  ! 

LADY  V.  I  smell  autumn — I  scent  it  from  afar. 
I  ask  myself  how  many  years  shall  I  have  a  man  for 
my  willing,  devoted  slave?  How  many  more  years 
shall  I  be  able  by  putting  on  my  winningest  airs  and 
graces  to  extract  some  sort  of  homage  from  him  ? 
How  many  more  years  shall  I  have  to  mope,  and 
wither,  and  remember,  and  attend  church  regularly? 
Oh,  my  God !  Lewin,  it  never  can  be  worth  while  for 
a  woman  to  live  one  moment  after  she  has  ceased  to 
be  loved.  (He  laughs  a  little,  bitter,  amused  laugh  ; 
she  breaks  out  rather  fiercely.)  And  you  men  have  the 
laugh  of  us !  Age  doesn't  wither  you  or  stale  your 
insolent,  victorious,  self-satisfied,  smirking,  common- 
place durability !  Oh,  you  brutes,  I  hate  you  all, 
because  you're  warranted  to  wash  and  wear  for  fifty 
years  !  (He  laughs  again.)  Don't  laugh  at  me  !  I'm 
nearly  mad  !  Lewin,  I've  got  another  good  ten  years 
before  me  to  be  loved  in,  haven't  I  ?  At  least  five. 
Tell  me  the  truth — no,  don't — give  me  what  love  you 
have  to  give  while  I'm  attractive  and  worth  it,  and 
then — the  moment  I'm  off  colour — wht — a  flash  of 
lightning  or  an  opium  pill  and  have  done  with  me ! 

DR.  C.     And  only  three  months  ago  you  refused 


42  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

the  best  love  I  had  to  offer.  Why  did  you  do  it? 
You  had  met  somebody  else  ? 

LADY  V.  Don't  ask  me  !  I  was  soon  undeceived. 
My  dear  Lewin,  you  don't  know  what  a  charming  man 
you  are.  But  I  do,  now. 

DR.  C     Now ! 

LADY  V.  And  you're  in  love  with  that  yard  and 
three-quarters  of  white  muslin.  It  won't  last,  you 
know. 

DR.  C.  I'm  not  in  love  with  her.  (LADY  VALERIE 
shakes  her  head.)  At  least,  I  may  not  be.  I  came  here 
jaded,  disappointed,  heartsick,  heart-broken.  I  met 
her — a  pure,  bright  girl,  fresh  from  God's  hands — 

LADY  V.     Fresh  from  where  ? 

DR.  C.  Oh,  some  of  you  do  come  from  there,  you 
know ! 

LADY  V.  Hum !  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it ! 
But  you're  a  physician  and  you  ought  to  know. 
My  dear  Lewin,  you  don't  really  believe  that  stale 
old  legend. 

DR.  C.     What  stale  old  legend  ? 

LADY  V.  The  legend  of  Saint  Edana:  that  a 
woman  can  reform  a  man,  change  his  character, 
spiritualise  him,  etherealise  him,  pure-white-muslinise 
him. 

DR.  C.     I've  known  an  instance  of  it. 

LADY  V.  Your  own.  But  the  process  isn't  com- 
plete. You've  only  known  her  three  months,  and  she 
has  always  worn  white  muslin.  You've  known  me  six 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  43 

years  and  I  have  never  worn  white  muslin,  or  its 
accompanying  inward  and  spiritual  graces. 

DR.  C.     They  wouldn't  suit  you. 

LADY  V.  Not  now  perhaps.  But  I  had  a  white 
muslin  period,  when  I  came  bright  and  pure  and  fresh 
from  (with  an  upward  nod)  you  know  where — at  least 
the  boy  who  loved  me  thought  I  did.  That  was  when 
I  was  seventeen. 

DR.  C.     I  can't  see  you  in  the  character. 

LADY  V.  Yet  I  have  played  it.  Really,  Lewin, 
in  your  profession  you  ought  to  have  some  knowledge 
of  us  and  our  trade  secrets.  Don't  you  know  what 
women  are  ? 

DR.  C.  No.  I've  become  a  very  simple  greenhorn 
down  here.  Tell  me,  are  you  all  alike  ? 

LADY  V.  At  heart,  yes.  We  all  go  through  the 
seven  ages  of  women  and  play  our  trumpery  little 
parts — all  of  them  as  artificial  and  tiresome  as  the 
French  stage  ingenue.  In  a  few  years  Miss  Hinde 
will  be  playing  this  role. 

DR.  C.     She'll  never  be  like  you. 

LADY  V.  No,  but  she'll  be  playing  this  part,  and 
playing  it — oh,  not  nearly  so  well  as  I  do. 

DR.  C.  She'll  never  be  like  you.  You  women 
don't  even  know  your  own  sex. 

LADY  V.  No  ?  Perhaps  not.  But  we  get  an 
occasional  glimmer,  whereas  you  men  are  quite  in  the 
dark.  Oh,  why  won't  you  be  content  to  know  us  and 
take  us  for  what  we  are  ? 


44  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

DR.  C.     What  are  you  ? 

LADY  V.  Terrestrial-celestial  amphibians.  Come ! 
You're  to  come  back  to  Buxenham  and  dine  with  me. 

DR.  C.  I'm  sorry.  I'm  going  to  supper  at  the 
Vicarage. 

LADY  V.     To-morrow,  then  ? 

DR.  C.  I  fear  not.  I'm  living  in  the  quietest 
way 

LADY  V.  I  know.  I've  been  down  the  lane  to 
see  that  queer  old  place  where  you  live — the  Abbot's 
Kitchen,  don't  you  call  it  ?  Aren't  you  horribly  dull  ? 

DR.  C.     I've  been  in  worse  company  than  my  own. 

LADY  V.  Lewin,  I'm  sorry,  terribly  sorry  that  I 
threw  you  over.  I  want  to  hear  a  note  or  two  of  the 
old  tune. 

DR.  C.     It's  too  late.  (Looking  of.) 

LADY  V.  I  can't  bear  to  lose  you.  Sir  Francis 
Dumby's  house  is  to  let  in  Harley  Street.  Come 
back  to  London  and  let  all  be  as  it  was,  except  that 
I  shall  have  learned  to  value  you. 

DR.  C.     It's  too  late.  (Looking  off.) 

LADY  V.  You  can  see  some  white  muslin  amongst 
the  trees. 

DR.  C.     Hush  !     Her  father. 

Enter  REV.  PEREGRINE,  R. 

REV.  P.     Ah,  Doctor  ! 

DR.  C.  (presenting).  Mr.  Hinde — Lady  Valerie 
Camville. 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  45 

LADY  V.  (bows).  I  must  be  getting  back  to 
Buxenham  to  dinner.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Hinde.  I 
should  like  to  come  and  see  over  your  church 
some  day. 

REV.  P.  Delighted,  Lady  Valerie.  We  prefer 
people  who  come  to  worship  and  to  pray — or  even  to 
contribute  to  the  offertory.  Still  we  don't  mind  show- 
ing it  to  satisfy  a  reasonable  curiosity.  I'll  show  you 
over  myself.  Come  any  day. 

LADY  V.  I  will.  I'm  making  a  long  stay  in 
Buxenham. 

DR.  C.     A  long  stay  ? 

LADY  V.  Yes.  My  hearing  is  growing  a  little 
defective.  I  mean  to  stay  at  Buxenham  to  recover 
one  or  two  lost  notes,  and  you  shall  treat  me.  My 
carriage  is  at  the  inn — come  and  see  me  to  it.  Do 
you  hear  ?  Come  and  see  me  to  my  carriage  ! 

(They  go  off  at  wicket  gate  R.,  REV.  PERE- 
GRINE follows  them  up,  humming,  and 
looks  after  them?) 

Enter,  R.,  JAMES  HEBBINGS  and  LOUISA  PACK,  a  pair 
of  country  sweethearts.  JAMES  has  his  arm  very 
tightly  clasped  round  LOUISA'S  waist  with  a  defiant 
air  of  proprietorship. 

JAMES.     Evenin',  pa'son. 

REV.  P.  Good  evening,  James.  You  seem  very 
happy. 


46  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

JAMES  (beaming,  giggling.  Tightly  clasping  her 
round  the  waist  LOUISA  curtseys).  Me  and  Louisa 
have  made  up  our  minds  to  bring  it  off.  That  is  as 
soon  as  we  can  save  up  a  fi'  pound  note  to  give  us  a 
bit  of  a  start. 

REV.  P.     I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  James. 

LOUISA.  Jim  has  been  off  and  on  for  the  last 
eighteen  months,  and  I  thought  it  was  time  for  him 
to  toe  the  mark. 

JAMES.  Well,  Loo,  I  have  toed  the  mark,  like  a 
man.  Only  in  my  judgment  nobody  ought  to  get 
married  under  a  f?  pound  note.  In  case  of  accidents, 
eh,  pa'son  ? 

REV.  P.  I  commend  your  prudence,  James. 
And,  James,  don't  you  think  it  would  look  prettier  if 
you  were  to  give  your  arm  to  Louisa  ? 

JAMES  (blankly}.  What  for?  I  be  going  to  be 
married  to  her,  and  if  I  bain't  to  put  my  arm  round 
her  waist,  what  be  I  to  do  ? 

REV.  P.     I  wouldn't,  James — in  public. 

JAMES  (takes  his  arm  away  very  reluctantly).  I 
don't  see  as  there's  anything  unreasonable  about  it. 
And  it's  allays  been  the  way  of  courting  in  this  parish. 

REV.  P.  It  is  the  way  of  courting  in  a  great  many 
parishes,  still  it  is  not  a  choice  way  of  courting  in  any 
parish.  Now,  allow  me.  (Disengaging  LOUISA  from 
JAMES.)  Observe,  James, — this  is  how  you  were 
courting. 

(Putting  his  arm  round  LOUISA  as  JAMES  had  done.} 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  47 

LOUISA  (giggling).     Don't  'ee,  pa'son. 
REV.  P.     It  is  not  an  elegant  attitude,  James. 
LOUISA.     Don't  'ee,  pa'son.  (Giggling?) 

REV.  P.     It  is  only  an  object  lesson,  Louisa.     Now, 
James,   when  I   go   courting  again — I'm  sixty-seven 
(sighs) — this  is  the  way  I  shall  walk  with  my  lady-love. 
Take  my  arm,  Louisa. 
LOUISA.     Oh,  pa'son. 

(REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE  walks  her  up  and 
down  a  few  paces,  then  hands  her  over  to 
JAMES,  who  has  stood  a  little  nonplussed 
and  embarrassed.} 

REV.  P.  There,  James  !  Take  her.  Cherish  her. 
Let  her  be  as  the  loving  hind  and  the  pleasant  roe, 
but  don't  fondle  her  indiscriminately  in  public. 

JAMES  (giving  LOUISA  his  ami).  All  same,  pa'son, 
this  way  of  courting  'ull  never  drive  out  the  other  way. 

(Taking  LOUISA  off  at  gate  L.) 
REV.  P.     It  needn't,  James — in  private. 

(Exeunt  JAMES  and  LOUISA  at  gate  L.) 

Enter,  R.,  JOHN  DIBLEY  and  MARTHA  DIBLEY,  a  very 
aged,  infirm  old  couple,  supporting  each  other. 

REV.  P.  Well,  John,  and  how  are  you  to-night> 
John? 

DIBLEY.  Oh,  I  be  'nation  wellnigh  blind,  thank 
God;  and  I  ain't  very  clever  in  my  insides,  thank 
God ;  and  I  'spect  I  be  about  doubled  up  and  done 


48  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

for,  thank  God ;  but  otherways  there  ain't  much  the 
matter  with  me,  thank  God  ! 

REV.  P.  (to  MRS.  DIBLEY).  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
at  church  again,  Martha. 

MARTHA.  Yes,  pa'son.  I  feel  somehow  as  I  can't 
keep  away  from  the  old  place. 

REV.  P.     That's  right,  Martha.     It  does  you  good  ? 

MARTHA.  Oh  no,  pa'son !  We  don't  come  to 
church  for  the  good  as  we  can  get  out  of  it. 

REV.  P.  Then  why  do  you  come  to  church, 
Martha  ? 

MARTHA.  You  see,  pa'son,  when  we've  sot  our- 
selves down  comfortable  for  the  sermon  and  you 
begin  a-holding  forth,  I  feel  my  old  man's  hand  a- 
creeping  towards  mine,  and  mine  a-creeping  towards 
hisen,  and  I  know  he's  a-thinking  of  our  two  boys  as 
lay  just  outside  the  church  a  few  foot  off,  eh,  John  ? 

JOHN.     Aye,  aye ! 

MARTHA.  And  we  sit  there  and  we  fancy  as  they're 
back  again  with  us,  and  we're  all  one  family  again. 

^  REV.  P.  It's  no  fancy,  Martha.  We  shall  all  be 
members  of  that  family  before  long.  And  a  very 
large  family  it  will  be. 

JOHN.  Aye,  aforelong,  thank  God  !  Come  along, 
old  woman !  (As  they  creep  off  towards  the  wicket 
gate  L.)  Come  along. 

(Exeunt JOHN  and  MARTHA  DIBLEY  at  wicket 
gate  L.) 


UNIV 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN 


Enter  ED  AN  A,  R.,  with  MAR  AH,  a  child  about  five. 

MARAH.  But  where's  my  mammy  ?  And  where's 
my  father? 

EDANA.     You  have  one  Father — in  Heaven 

MARAH.     I've  never  seen  Him  !     Why  doesn't  He 

come  down  here  sometimes?      I  mean  a  real  live 

father  like  other  little  girls  have.     There's  your  father. 

(Pointing  to  REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE.)   Where's  mine? 

(DR.  CAREY  enters  wicket  gate  R.) 

EDANA.  I'll  lend  you  my  father  sometimes.  He's 
a  very  nice  father,  indeed.  You  couldn't  have  a 
better. 

MARAH.  But  where's  my  mammy?  I  think  I 
should  like  you  for  a  mammy 

EDANA.  Hush,  dear.  (Kisses  her^  hides  her  face, 
looks  up.)  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Dr.  Carey  ? 

DR.  C.  The  old  mystery.  The  how  and  the  why 
of  love.  The  how  and  the  why  of  life.  (She  kisses 
the  child  again  and  hides  her  head  behind  her.")  It's 
very  wonderful.  And  the  more  the  microscope  tells 
us  about  the  how,  the  less  we  know  about  the  why. 
What's  your  name,  my  pretty  one?  (To  EDANA.) 
Who  is  she? 

EDANA.     Her  name  is  Marah. 


50  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

Enter,  R.,  STEPHEN  GURDON,  a  man  about  sixty,  a 
stern  broken  man,  with  strong  features,  and  a  settled 
hopeless  look  upon  them. 

EDANA.     Here  is  her  grandfather  ! 

(STEPHEN  GURDON  sits  on  seat  R.,  nodding  to 
the  REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE.) 

REV.  P.     Well,  Stephen? 

STEPHEN  (curtly).     Pa'son. 

(Sits,  looks  steadily  in  front  of  him.) 

DR.  C.  (in  a  low  tone  to  REV.  PEREGRINE).  What's 
the  story? 

REV.  P.  He  had  an  only  daughter — she  was 
betrayed,  poor  child — ran  away  from  home  and  came 
back  with  that  little  one.  We  tried  to  keep  her  here, 
and  bring  her  back  to  the  fold,  but  she  ran  away  again 
and  went  utterly  astray — sank  and  disappeared.  God 
have  mercy  on  her  and  save  her  yet !  The  mother 
broke  her  heart  and  died.  He  broke  his  heart,  but 
he  lives  on,  poor  man  ! 

STEPHEN  (seeing  they  are  whispering).  Telling 
over  my  old  tale  again,  pa'son?  You  ain't  got  no 
call  to  do  that. 

REV.  P.  But  we  can't  help  feeling  sympathy  with  you. 

STEPHEN.  Can't  you?  Well,  try  and  help  it, 
pa'son.  I  don't  want  your  sympathy. 

REV.  P.  Very  well,  Stephen ;  we'll  keep  it  till  you 
do.  Won't  you  soften  your  heart  and  come  with  us 
to-night,  Stephen?  . 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  51 

STEPHEN.     No,  I  don't  believe  the  stuff,  and  I 
won't  say  that  I  do.     I'd  as  lief  be  left  alone,  pa'son. 
REV.  P.     Very  well,  Stephen.      But  remember  we 
keep  open  house  here.  (Exit  into  church?) 

EDANA  (following  REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE).  Dr. 
Carey,  aren't  you  coming  to  church  ? 

DR.  C.  I  promised  to  go  and  dress  that  poor 
fellow's  leg.  And  I  forgot  all  about  him  listening  to 
you. 

EDANA.     You'll  come  back ? 

DR.  C.  Yes.  And  if  I  don't  come  inside,  look 
for  me  at  the  lepers'  window. 

(Pointing  to  the  lepers'  window.} 
EDANA.     No,  you  are  healed  now. 
DR.  C.     Am  I  ?     You  are  my  physician. 

(Exit    wicket  gate    R.       EDANA   goes    into 

church} 

STEPHEN.  Come  here,  Marah.  Keep  beside 
me. 

MARAH  (goes  to  him).  Grandpa,  what  makes  you 
so  angry  always  ?  Can't  you  laugh  ? 

STEPHEN.  Oh  yes,  my  chick.  (With  a  bitter, 
contemptuous  laugh}  I  can  laugh.  (Laughs  again} 
I  can  laugh ! 

(The  child  looks  at  him  frightened.  AMPHIEL 
appears  at  the  wicket  gate  R.  ;  enters 
without  seeing  them,  then  catching  sight 
of  them  is  about  to  retreat,  but  MARAH 
sees  him} 


52  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

MARAH.     Look,  grandpa  !  Mr.  Amphiel. 

(AMPHIEL  comes  up  to  them.  He  looks  some- 
what dissipated  and  haggard.  His 
manner  is  furtive  and  constrained^) 

AMPHIEL.     Stephen 

STEPHEN  (looks  up  and  curtly  nods).  Mr.  Amphiel, 
you're  back  home 

AMPHIEL.     Yes,  rather  unexpectedly. 

STEPHEN.  You  haven't  happened  to  meet  with 
Jessie  in  any  of  your  travels,  I  suppose  ? 

AMPHIEL.  No.  I  promised  you  I'd  keep  a  good 
look-out  for  her  in  all  the  towns  where  I  go,  and  so  I 
will.  But  I've  not  been  in  England  lately — I've  been 
to  India. 

STEPHEN.     Ah ! 

AMPHIEL.  But  I  shall  be  visiting  a  few  of  the 
large  towns  on  temperance  work  shortly,  and  I  will 
have  some  inquiries  made.  You  may  be  sure  I  will 
do  everything  I  can  to  find  her  for  you. 

STEPHEN.  You  remember  Jessie  as  a  girl,  don't 
you? 

AMPHIEL.     Oh,  very  well — very  well  indeed. 

STEPHEN.  She  was  a  handsome,  strapping  girl, 
wasn't  she?  (Turning  to  MARAH.)  Do  you  see  the 
likeness  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Hush  !  hush !  (To  MARAH.)  Marah, 
run  away  for  a  moment.  I  want  to  talk  to  your 
grandfather.  (The  child  goes  over,  R.)  I  wish  I  could 
find  your  daughter.  But  I  fear  it's  not  likely. 


ACT  II  THE  PHYSICIAN  53 

STEPHEN.  No,  and  if  you  did,  what  would  she  be 
like  now  ?  After  six  years  of  that !  What's  she  doing 
to-night  ?  Look !  (pointing  to  the  sunset]  it's  a 
beautiful  evening,  ain't  it?  And  this  is  a  hell  of  a 
world,  ain't  it  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Oh,  don't  speak  like  that.  Mr.  Gurdon, 
tell  me,  is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you,  to 
comfort  you  ? 

STEPHEN.  Yes,  bring  me  word  that  she's  dead,  so 
that  I  may  know  my  own  flesh  and  blood  ain't  hawking 
itself  about  from  gin-shop  to  gin-shop  this  beautiful 
evening.  (Going  off  wicket  gate  L.)  Come  along, 
Marah.  I  wonder  what  she's  like  to-night !  I  wonder 
what  she's  like  to-night !  (Rxit  wicket  gate  L.  ) 

(MARAH  is  crossing  to  follow  him  ;  AMPHIEL, 
who  has  stood  horrified,  intercepts  her  as 
she  passes  him.) 

AMPHIEL.  Marah,  kiss  me,  my  dear.  (Kisses  her 
hungrily.}  Marah,  when  you  grow  up — you  won't — 
you  won't — kiss  me,  dear ;  promise  me  you'll  grow  up 
to  be  a  good  girl  ? 

STEPHEN  (voice  heard  off).     Come,  Marah  ! 

MARAH.     Hark !     Grandpa ! 

AMPHIEL.     But  promise  me — 

MARAH.  Yes,  of  course.  I  shall  always  be  good. 
I  promise  you ;  there  !  (Kisses  him.) 

AMPHIEL.     My  dear,  my  dear  ! 

(Stroking  her  hair  affectionately.  She  breaks 
away  from  him,  runs  off  after  STEPHEN. 


54  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

AMPHIEL  follows  her  a  few  steps.  From 
this  time  stage  gradually  grows  darker. 
Singing  in  the  church.  AMPHIEL  goes 
to  the  lepers'  window,  looks  in,  shows 
great  emotion,  stretches  out  his  hands 
with  a  vain,  longing  gesture.  As  the 
music  swells  he  tumbles  against  the  church 
wall,  sobbing  violently.} 

(After  a  pause  EDANA  re-enters  from  the 
church  behind  him.  She  stands  a  moment 
or  two  watching  him,  then  comes  up  to 
him,  touches  his  shoulder} 

EDANA.  Walter !  (He  turns  round}  Walter !  I 
saw  you  through  the  window.  You've  come  back? 
(He  turns  round  startled,  rises,  looks  dazed,  bewildered} 
Walter  !  What  is  it,  dear  ?  What  ails  you  ? 

AMPHIEL.  I  don't  know — the  thought  of  the  crowd 
in  church — I'm  always  moved  by  the  sight  of  a  crowd. 
Don't  take  any  notice  of  me.  I'm  better. 

EDANA.  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  back!  I've 
been  so  anxious  about  you.  Where  have  you  been  ? 
When  did  you  land  ? 

AMPHIEL.  I've  been  in  England  some  days.  I 
didn't  tell  you  because  I  wanted  so  much  to  start  the 
new  refuge  at  Plymouth.  I  felt  it  was  my  duty.  I 
only  finished  very  late  last  night — too  late  to  telegraph 
you.  So  I  came  on  at  once. 

EDANA.      I  might  have  known  you  had  been  at 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  55 

some  good  work.  But  IVe  been  so  anxious !  You 
should  have  written  to  me !  Never  mind !  You're 
here  !  You're  here  !  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am ! 
(Crying  a  little  with  joy.)  Now  it's  I  who  am  foolish! 
I'm  so  pleased  to  see  you !  Let  me  look  at  you ! 
(He  turns  away  from  her.)  No,  let  me  look  at  you. 
I  want  to  see  if  you  are  better. 

AMPHIEL.  I'm  well  enough.  The  voyage  has  done 
me  a  world  of  good.  (Avoiding  her  scrutiny.) 

EDANA  (very  anxiously).  Are  you  sure  ?  Oh,  my 
dearest,  you  look  ill — you  look  very  ill. 

AMPHIEL.  No,  no.  Only  a  little  tired.  That's 
all. 

EDANA.     Dr.  Carey  shall  see  you  in  the  morning. 

AMPHIEL.  Dr.  Carey?  Is  he  still  here?  Why 
hasn't  he  gone  back  ? 

EDANA.  He  has  given  up  his  practice  and  is  living 
here.  I've  talked  to  him  so  much  about  you.  He 
has  promised  to  take  you  thoroughly  in  hand  and 
look  after  you  till  you're  quite  well. 

AMPHIEL.  I  tell  you  there's  nothing  the  matter 
with  me.  I'm  quite  well !  I  won't  see  him  ! 

EDANA.  Yes,  yes,  dearest — to  please  me.  Say  it's 
only  my  whim,  but  do,  do  see  him.  Oh,  my  dearest, 
you  don't  know  how  I  care  for  you.  My  heart  is  like 
stone  when  I  think  of  you. 

AMPHIEL.  I'm  not  worth  it.  Don't  trouble  about 
me.  I'm  not  worth  it. 

EDANA.     Oh  yes,  indeed  you  are,  and  I  must  have 


56  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

you  well.  Oh,  I've  so  much  to  tell  you.  But  tell  me 
about  yourself  first. 

AMPHIEL.  Edana,  since  I've  been  in  India  I've 
formed  a  great  plan. 

EDANA.     Yes,  dear,  tell  me. 

AMPHIEL.  It  depends  on  you  whether  I  carry  it 
out  or  not. 

EDANA.  If  it  depends  on  me  you  know  it  is  done 
— if  it  is  anything  within  my  power. 

AMPHIEL.  Dare  you  give  up  everything  for  the 
cause,  and  for  me  ? 

EDANA.     Try  me  and  see. 

AMPHIEL.  You  know,  dear,  that  at  times  I  have 
a  dreadful  nausea  of  life  and  feel  obliged  to  hide 
away  from  my  fellow-creatures  for  a  while,  and  then 
nothing  brings  me  round  but  a  plunge  into  my  work. 

EDANA.     Ah,  dear,  you  work  too  hard. 

AMPHIEL.  No,  no,  it's  my  work  that  keeps  me 
alive.  Edana,  I  feel  that  if  I  were  to  leave  England 
altogether 

EDANA.     For  life  ? 

AMPHIEL.  For  some  years.  There's  a  tremendous 
field  for  temperance  work  in  India.  There,  the  fiend 
is  opium.  Here,  it's  alcohol.  But  the  craving,  the 
disease,  is  the  same. 

EDANA.     And  you  would  go  to  India  to  live? 

AMPHIEL.     Dare  I  ask  it  of  you  ? 

EDANA.     My  father ! 

AMPHIEL.     Ah  !  I  knew  it  was  too  much  to  ask. 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  57 

EDANA.     No,  no !     I'll  do  it  if  it  is  the  best  for 
you.     I  gave  myself  to  you  and  I  won't  draw  back. 
Yes,  Walter,  when  you  ask  me  I  shall  be  ready. 
AMPHIEL.     Oh,  I'm  not  worthy  of  you  ! 
EDANA.      Not  worthy  of  me?      Oh,  you  are  far 
better  and  braver  than  I  am.     I  love  you  for  your 
devotion  to  your  work  !     There's  not  another  man  in 
the  world  like  you. 

(DR.  CAREY  has  entered  wicket  gate  R.,  and  has 
come  upon  them  to  overhear  the  last  words, 
and  to  see  her  looking  up  to  AMPHIEL 
with  the  greatest  devotion.  He  sees 
AMPHIEL — a  momentary  glance  of  recog- 
nition between  the  two  men.  AMPHIEL 
shows  fright  and  mutely  appeals  to  DR. 
CAREY.  DR.  CAREY  shows  great  moment- 
ary surprise  with  horror,  which  he 
quickly  conceals.} 

DR.  C.     I  beg  pardon (Is  going.) 

EDANA.     No,    Dr.   Carey,   don't  go.      I  want  to 
introduce  you.     Mr.  Amphiel — Dr.  Carey. 

(AMPHIEL  again  makes  mute  appeal  to  DR. 

CAREY.) 
AMPHIEL.     How  d'ye  do,  Dr.  Carey  ? 

(Offers  hand,  which  CAREY  takes  after  slight 

reluctance} 

DR.  C.     How  d'ye  do  ? 

EDANA  (to  DR.  CAREY).      There  is  your  patient. 
He  has  come  at  last.     (To  AMPHIEL.)     You  are  to 


58  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

put  yourself  entirely  in  his  hands  and  do  exactly  as 
he  tells  you,  and  (very  excitedly)  you  will,  you  will  for 
my  sake? 

(AMPHIEL  looks  at  DR.  CAREY  with  mingled 

apprehension  and  appeal.} 

DR.  C.  (significantly  looking  at  AMPHIEL).  I'm 
sure  Mr.  Amphiel  will  trust  himself  to  me,  and  I  shall 
give  him  every  care  and  attention. 

ED  ANA  (to  AMPHIEL).  There !  Now  I'm  satisfied ! 
I  feel  you  are  well  already. 

(MARAH  runs  in  at  wicket  gate  L.,  and  comes 

up  to  ED  AN  A.) 

EDANA.  I  feel  so  happy !  I  haven't  got  over  the 
thought  that  you  are  here  !  Ah,  Marah  ! 

(Seizes  the  child^  kisses  her.  AMPHIEL  makes 
a  movement  to  stop  her,  which  EDANA 
does  not  notice ;  it  z>,  however •,  seen  by 
DR.  CAREY,  who  for  the  moment  does 
not  understand  it ;  turns  round  to  notice 
STEPHEN,  who  enters  wicket  gate  L. 
DR.  CAREY'S  face  shows  a  sudden  illum- 
ination of  horror ;  he  turns  to  AMPHIEL, 
who  appeals  to  him.  DR.  CAREY  stands 
horror-stricken} 

EDANA  (hugging  MARAH).  Oh,  I'm  so  happy, 
Marah,  so  happy !  You  must  come  with  me  and  I 
must  give  you  something  to  make  you  happy.  (To 
AMPHIEL.)  You're  to  tell  him  everything  and  then 
come  on  to  the  Vicarage  to  me.  I've  so  much  to  talk 


ACT  ii  THE  PHYSICIAN  59 

about!  Come,  Marah.  (To  STEPHEN.)  I'm  going 
to  take  her  with  me,  Mr.  Gurdon.  Come  and  fetch 
her  by  and  by.  (Jb  AMPHIEL.)  Don't  be  long!  I'm 
waiting  for  you  !  Don't  be  long  ! 

(Exit,  R.,  fondling  MARAH.  STEPHEN  fvttows. 
DR.  CAREY,  as  soon  as  EDANA  and 
MARAH  have  gone  off>  allows  himself 
the  full  expression  of  his  horror  to 
AMPHIEL, /0/7Z&  to  STEPHEN'S  retreating 
figure.  AMPHIEL  stands  abject,  appeal- 
ing. Exit  STEPHEN,  R.) 

AMPHIEL  (in  a  whisper).     You  won't  betray  me  ? 
DR.  C.     My  God  !     My  God  !     You  !     You  to  be 
her  husband  ? 

AMPHIEL.      You  won't   betray  me?     (Agonized.') 
You  won't  betray  me  ? 

DR.  C.     Betray  you  ?     No !     But  you'll  break  off 
this  engagement. 

AMPHIEL.  I  can't !  I  can't !  I  love  her  so  much. 
And  she  loves  me.  It  would  break  her  heart.  I  can't 
give  her  up !  I'll  make  myself  worthy  of  her.  It's 
not  too  late  !  I  can  do  anything  for  her  sake.  I  can 
conquer  myself  and  I  will !  Help  me !  You're  a 
physician.  She  said  you  could  cure  me.  Will  you  ? 
Will  you  ?  I  throw  myself  on  your  mercy  !  Save  me ! 
DR.  G.  (hesitates  for  a  few  moments.  He  looks  very 
searchingly  at  AMPHIEL,  seizes  AMPHIEL'S  hands,  makes 
AMPHIEL  look  at  him.  Hymn  in  church).  Will  you 
put  yourself  in  my  hands  from  this  moment  ?  Will 


60  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  n 

you  give  yourself  over  to  me,  do  as  I  bid  you,  be 
guided  by  me  in  everything,  till  I  have  done  my  best 
to  heal  you,  made  a  new  man  of  you,  so  far  as  that  is 
possible  ?  Will  you  do  it  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Yes,  yes — anything.  And  you'll  save 
me  from  myself? 

DR.  C.  Trust  to  me !  Whatever  human  skill 
and  patience  can  do,  I'll  do  for  you,  and  I'll  never 
leave  you  while  there's  a  hope  that  I  can  drag  you 
out  of  this  mire  and  make  you  fit  to  hold  up  your 
head  before  all  men,  and  before  her !  Trust  to  me, 
my  poor  lad,  trust  to  me ! 

CURTAIN. 
(Six  months  pass  between  Acts  II.  and  III.) 


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ACT    III 

SCENE — THE  ABBOT'S  KITCHEN  AT  FONTLEAS,  A  VERY 
QUAINT,  IRREGULAR  GOTHIC  BUILDING  ADAPTED 
TO  A  MODERN  LIVING-ROOM,  WITH  EVIDENCES  OF 
FREQUENT  RESTORATION  AND  ALTERATION. 

On  the  R.  down  stage  a  large  old-fashioned  fireplace  with 
ornaments  and  photographs,  one  of  them  a  photograph 
of  AMPHIEL  and  ED  ANA  taken  together.  Above  the 
fireplace  a  large  old-fashioned  armchair,  very  deep  ;  a 
small  table  on  castors  is  laid  with  the  remains  of 
dinner  for  two.  Chairs  above  and  to  L.  of  table. 
The  whole  of  this  R.  side  of  the  room  is  curtained  in 
and  forms  a  cosy  nook — the  curtains  of  heavy  dark 
material  run  from  an  angle  in  the  wall  up  stage  to 
within  about  two  yards  of  the  footlights,  and  are 
hung  on  a  brass  rod  suspended  from  the  ceiling, 
which  is  rather  low.  Above  and  in  line  with  the 
curtains  is  a  door,  called  throughout  the  Act  the 
inner  door.  All  the  L.  side  of  the  stage  at  back  is 
taken  up  with  a  deep  recess  and  bay  window.  In 
this  recess  is  a  large  table  with  microscopes,  glass 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  63 

bottles,  tubes,  scientific  instruments  and  apparatus, 
books,  papers,  MSS.,  scientific  periodicals,  etc.  At 
the  sides  of  the  recess  and  under  the  bay  window 
are  shelves  filled  with  scientific  books,  and  there  are 
heaps  of  books  on  the  floor  in  the  recess.  The 
window  looks  out  upon  a  wintry  night  landscape 
with  moon.  The  window  and  recess  are  also 
curtained  off  by  curtains.  These  curtains  run 
across  R.  and  L.  The  space  to  the  L.  makes  a  kind 
of  hall,  and  is  carpeted  but  sparely  furnished,  one 
or  two  chairs  and  a  small  table  somewhat  to  the 
L.  In  the  L.  wall  a  window  up  stage,  and  a  very 
large  thick  old  oak  door  with  heavy  handle  and  lock 
and  key  doivn  stage.  Between  the  window  and  door 
on  the  L.  are  several  pegs  with  hats,  overcoats,  and 
an  umbrella  stand  with  umbrella  and  sticks. 
TIME  :  about  half-past  seven  on  a  December  evening. 

Discover  DR.  CAREY  and  BROOKER  at  the  little  table 
R.,  curtained  in  by  the  curtain  running  down  stage 
from  the  inner  door.  DR.  CAREY  is  on  the  chair 
above  the  table,  BROOKER  on  a  chair  at  the  side  of 
the  table.  The  curtains  running  across  the  stage 
are  also  drawn,  shutting  off  the  table  and  scientific 
apparatus.  They  have  just  finished  dinner,  and  a 
bright  fire  is  burning. 

DR.  C.     Well,  I  told  you  I  was  equal  to  a  plain 
dinner. 


64  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

BROOKER.  Excellent.  A  cutlet,  a  cold  chicken, 
and  a  bottle  of  seventy-five  claret,  what  can  a  man 
want  more  ? 

DR.  C.     And  you  really  took  me  by  surprise. 

BROOKER.     I  had  the  afternoon  to  spare.     I  looked 
up  "  Bradshaw,"  found  I  could  just  catch  a  train,  have 
an  hour  with  you,  and  get  back  by  the  late  express. 
What  a  confounded  queer  place  to  live  in,  Carey  ! 
(Looking  round  the  place?) 

DR.  C.  Yes,  it  was  the  kitchen  belonging  to  the 
old  abbey.  It  tumbled  into  decay  and  got  turned 
into  a  farmhouse.  It  tumbled  into  decay  again,  the 
farmer  himself  tumbled  into  decay,  and  died ;  his 
widow  sold  off  the  land,  patched  the  old  place  up, 
and  made  it  just  fit  for  me  to  live  in. 

BROOKER.     And  you  can  really  live  here  all  alone  ? 

DR.  C.  Not  all  alone.  I  have  two  human  com- 
panions, and  some  millions  of  microbes. 

BROOKER.  And  where  are  they,  the  human  com- 
panions ? 

DR.  C.  My  housekeeper,  old  Granny  Barton,  is 
racked  with  rheumatism,  so  I've  sent  her  over  to 
Buxenham  for  a  course  of  treatment,  and  her  neighbour 
Mrs.  Bowden  comes  in  and  does  for  me.  Then  I've 
one  patient,  Mr.  Walter  Amphiel — fill  your  glass. 

BROOKER  (filling  glass).  Amphiel,  the  Temper- 
ance organiser — does  he  let  you  drink  seventy -five 
claret  ? 

DR.  C.     No.     I've  not  tasted  wine  for  the  last  six 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  65 

months,  all  the  time  he  has  been  with  me.     But  he's 
away  just  now. 

BROOKER.     Oh — where  is  he  ? 

(MRS.  BOWDEN,  a  stout,  pleasant -looking 
country  woman  in  bonnet  and  shawl, 
enters  at  inner  door,  draws  aside  the 
curtains.} 

DR.  C.     Well,  Mrs.  Bowden,  going  for  the  night  ? 

MRS.  B.  Yes,  doctor,  unless  there's  anything  I 
can  do  for  you. 

DR.  C.     Nothing,  thank  you. 

MRS.  B.  I  suppose  Mr.  Amphiel  won't  be  coming 
back  to-night  ? 

DR.  C.  (after  a  slight  pause).     No,  I  think  not. 

MRS.  B.  I've  left  his  room  ready  for  him  in  case 
he  does.  And  perhaps  you'll  excuse  my  going.  I've 
got  my  man  to  look  after,  and  he  does  rave  and  storm 
the  house  down  if  his  supper  ain't  ready  to  the  minute. 

DR.  C.  Ah  !  husbands  are  tiresome  animals,  Mrs. 
Bowden. 

MRS.  B.  (cordially).  Oh  they  are,  sir  !  You  know 
'em,  being  a  doctor.  Whatever  possesses  a  gal  to  get 
married  when  she's  well  off,  I  cannot  think.  But  the 
chaps  will  come  teasing  and  plaguing  round  us,  and 
we  fools  like  it — and  then,  there  it  is — work  and 
worry  and  babies,  work  and  worry  and  babies,  nothing 
else  from  the  time  you're  twenty  till  you're  wore  out. 
Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  I  do  hope  there's  some  good 
purpose  running  through  it  all. 


66  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  m 

DR.  C.  I  hope  so,  Mrs.  Bowden.  But  the  ways 
of  Providence  are  dark. 

MRS.  B.  Oh,  they  are,  sir.  You  may  well  say 
that.  Breakfast  as  usual,  sir  ? 

DR.  C.    Breakfast  as  usual,  Mrs.  Bowden. 
MRS.   B.      Then   I'll   say  good -night,    sir.       (To 
BROOKER.)     And  good-night  to  you,  sir. 
DR.  C.     Good-night,  Mrs.  Bowden  !  |    , 
BROOKER.     Good-night!  } 

(Exit  MRS.  BOWDEN  at  inner  door.  As  she 
goes  off,  DR.  CAREY  rises,  pushes  chair 
back  from  table,  further  draws  back  the 
curtain.  BROOKER  moves  his  chair. 
CAREY  pushes  table  a  little  out  into 
centre  of  room  and  up  towards  the  inner 
door — it  remains  there  just  on  the  right 
side  of  the  curtain  line  during  the 
remainder  of  Act.) 

DR.  C.  (taking  out  watch).  You've  half  an  hour 
yet,  old  fellow.  Light  your  cigar  and  let's  make  the 
most  of  it. 

BROOKER.  How  can  you  bury  yourself  in  this 
hole,  Carey? 

DR.  C.  Hole?  Bury  myself?  I've  been  living, 
Brooker,  the  last  few  months,  really  living  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life. 

BROOKER.     But  you're  wasting  yourself  down  here. 

DR.  C.     Wasting  myself!     I  work  from  morning 

to  night.     (Goes  up  to  curtains,  draws  them  aside,  dis- 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  67 

covers  the  back  of  the  room  and  table  with  scientific 
apparatus,  etc.)  Look  !  (Takes  up  a  tube,  holds  it  to 
BROOKER.)  Don't  whisper  it,  Brooker,  I  fancy  I'm 
on  the  track  of  the  cancer  microbe !  I'm  not  sure  I 
haven't  got  my  gentleman  here.  And  I  shall  have  a 
little  to  say  and  a  great  deal  to  do  when  the  next 
cholera  outbreak  comes.  You  know  I  was  always 
more  of  a  student  than  a  practitioner.  I  never  had 
quite  a  good  bedside  manner,  Brooker. 

BROOKER.  And  you've  quite  made  up  your  mind 
not  to  come  back  to  London  ? 

DR.  C.  Quite.  So  settle  yourself  in  Cavendish 
Square,  physic  away,  and  say  no  more  about  it. 

(Goes  rather  restlessly  to  outer  door,  opens  it, 
looks  out,  shuts  /"/.) 

BROOKER.     Are  you  expecting  anybody  ? 

DR.  C.     No.     Only  the  evening  post. 

BROOKER.    Carey,  I  shan't  like  leaving  you  to-night. 

DR.  C.     Why  not  ? 

BROOKER.  There's  something  wrong  with  you. 
I've  been  watching  you.  You're  feverish,  restless, 
unsettled. 

DR.  C.     Am  I  ? 

BROOKER.  What  ails  you?  Can  an  old  friend 
be  of  any  help  or  comfort  ? 

DR.  C.  I'll  tell  you,  Brooker.  I  don't  think  I 
could  speak  of  this  to  anybody  but  you.  It's  too 
sacred. 

BROOKER.     Go  on ! 


68  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

DR.  C.  I  suppose  most  of  us  have  been  attracted 
and  have  lightly  loved  many  women.  Those  loves 
are  not  love.  And  I  suppose  most  of  us  have  had, 
once  in  our  lives,  an  overpowering  passion. 

BROOKER.  Yes.  Thank  God,  I  got  mine  over 
early,  when  I  was  twenty-five. 

DR.  C.     And  since  then  ? 

BROOKER.  Since  then  I've  been  too  busy  scraping 
together  bread  and  cheese  for  Mrs.  Brooker  and  my 
family  to  get  into  much  mischief  of  that  sort.  And 
now  I  hope  I'm  comfortably  past  the  danger  of 
making  myself  a  fool  for  a  woman. 

DR.  C.  (looking  at  him).  You're  not  to  be  envied, 
Brooker. 

BROOKER.  Perhaps  not.  But  Mrs.  Brooker  is. 
Go  on. 

DR.  C.  You  remember  my  coming  down  here  last 
spring?  I  was  quite  hopeless,  except  for  the  one 
thought  that  perhaps  I  might  make  Miss  Hinde  happy 
by  restoring  her  lover  to  health. 

BROOKER.     Well  ? 

DR.  C.  He  went  on  a  voyage  to  India.  Mean- 
time I  saw  a  great  deal  of  her,  helped  her  in  her 
parish  work,  and  doctored  her  invalids.  Brooker, 
before  Amphiel  came  back,  I  couldn't  disguise  from 
myself  that  my  whole  future,  my  whole  being,  my 
whole  life,  were  bound  up  in  that  girl. 

BROOKER.  Nonsense,  Carey  !  Nonsense !  Non- 
sense ! 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  69 

DR.  C.  No,  Brooker,  Wisdom  !  Wisdom  !  From 
the  moment  I  saw  her,  I  became  young  and  hopeful 
again.  She  has  sweetened  and  blessed  and  renewed 
the  whole  earth  for  me.  I  tell  you,  Brooker,  of  all 
the  millions  around  us  she  and  I  are  the  only  living 
creatures  on  this  earth. 

BROOKER.     Nonsense !     Nonsense !     Nonsense ! 

DR.  C.  No,  Wisdom  !  Wisdom  !  Wisdom  !  If 
I  had  to  part  from  her,  I  feel  that  moment  I  should 
drop  back  again  into  madness  and  despair.  With 
her — with  her — O  my  God  !  Brooker — with  her  what 
a  splendid  life  I  could  live  in  this  dull  world  for  the 
next  thirty  years. 

BROOKER.  But  you  say  she  is  engaged  to  Am- 
phiel  ? 

DR.  C.     Yes. 

BROOKER.     And  she's  attached  to  him  ? 

DR.  C.     Devotedly  attached. 

BROOKER.  And  she  doesn't  suspect  your  feelings 
for  her  ? 

DR.  C.  She  must  know  that  I  have  a  great  regard 
for  her,  perhaps  guesses  that  I  love  her.  But  so  far 
as  I  have  been  able,  I  have  been  perfectly  loyal  to 
her,  and  to  him. 

BROOKER.  Carey,  this  is  madness,  you  know.  It 
can't  continue.  Why  don't  you  get  away  from  this 
place  and  leave  her  to  marry  the  fellow  ? 

DR.  C.     I  told  you  he  is  my  patient. 

BROOKER.     Oh  yes,  of  course.      You   said  he'd 


70  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

been  living  with  you  here  for  some  months.  (Gets  up 
to  light  his  cigar,  goes  to  fireplace.}  Curious  arrange- 
ment. What's  the  matter  with  him  ?  (At  that  moment 
his  eyes  fall  upon  the  photograph  of  AMPHIEL  and 
EDANA  which  is  on  the  shelf  of  the  fireplace  ;  he  shows 
some  astonishment  and  takes  up  the  photograph.} 
Carey,  whose  portraits  are  these  ? 

DR.  C.  That  is  Amphiel — and  Miss  Hinde,  taken 
together. 

BROOKER  (startled).  This  man  Amphiel — this — 
Amphiel  ? 

DR.  C.     Yes— why? 

BROOKER.  The  young  fellow  who  consulted 
you 

DR.  C.  Of  course.  You  saw  him  that  evening. 
I  had  forgotten. 

BROOKER.  You  forgot,  too,  that  he  had  consulted 
me  about  four  years  before.  Carey,  I  wasn't  mistaken 
— that  man  is  a  drunkard. 

DR.  C.     Yes. 

BROOKER.     A  hopeless  drunkard  ? 

DR.  C.  No — not  quite  hopeless,  since  he  has 
been  here  with  me. 

BROOKER.     And  she  doesn't  know  ? 

DR.  C.  She  hasn't  the  least  thought  of  it.  She 
could  see  he  was  ill,  and  asked  me  to  take  him  under 
my  care.  I've  had  him  hanging  round  my  neck  like 
a  millstone  for  the  last  six  months. 

BROOKER.     Where  is  he  now  ? 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  71 

DR.  C.  I  don't  know.  But  I  shall  know  in  a  few 
minutes  —  as  soon  as  the  post  comes  in. 

(Looking  anxiously  at  the  outer  door.) 

BROOKER.     I  don't  understand  —  you  seem  - 

DR.  C.     I  seem  —  what  ? 

BROOKER.  You  seem  to  be  waiting  for  some  bad 
news  of  him. 

DR.  C.  I  am  !  I  hate  him,  Brooker  !  I  may  as 
well  show  you  all  my  heart  now  I've  begun.  I  hate 
him  !  Damn  him  !  I  hate  him  !  for  he  stands  between 
her  and  me.  I  brought  him  here  to  live  with  me  ;  I've 
been  alone  with  him  all  this  while.  I've  scarcely  let 
him  go  out  of  my  sight.  The  strain  has  been  awful. 
At  times  it  has  almost  driven  me  mad.  To  sit  here 
and  talk  to  him,  soothe  him,  amuse  him,  knowing  all 
the  while  that  the  devil  inside  him  was  urging  him  to 
get  away  and  ruin  himself.  I've  been  doctor,  nurse, 
father,  brother,  friend  to  him.  I  never  had  such  a 
task.  But  I've  done  it,  because  she  loves  him.  And 
partly  because  the  man  interests  me,  fascinates  me. 
Here's  the  strange  thing  —  I  hate  him,  but  I  want  to 
save  him.  I  began  to  feel  proud  of  the  case.  I  saw 
him  growing  brighter,  happier,  stronger  every  day. 
And  it  made  her  so  happy.  She  was  so  grateful  to 
me.  Well,  all  went  well  with  him  till  three  weeks 
ago  - 

BROOKER.     What  then  ? 

DR.  C.  He  went  out  for  a  walk  with  her  and 
persuaded  her  that  his  temperance  work  called  him 


OF   • 

j 


72  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

away.  She  believed  him  and  came  back  alone.  We 
got  no  news  of  him.  She  grew  more  and  more 
anxious,  and  a  week  ago  I  went  up  to  London  and 
put  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  Nicholson  the  private 
detective.  I  got  this  telegram  from  him  this  morn- 
ing  

(Taking  telegram  from  pocket  and  giving  it 
to  BROOKER.) 

BROOKER  (reading  the  telegram).  "  Have  dis- 
covered the  person.  Am  writing  you  fully  by  this  post. 
Nicholson."  (Giving  back  telegram  to  DR.  CAREY.) 
And  you  fear 

DR.  C.  Fear?  No,  Brooker — that's  it — I  don't 
fear — I  almost  hope.  (A  postmaris  knock  at  outer 
door.}  The  post !  (Goes  to  door,  opens  it.} 

POSTMAN  (without,  handing  in  letter}.  Bitter  cold 
again  to-night,  sir. 

DR.  C.  (taking  letter}.     Very  cold. 

POSTMAN.     Good-night,  sir. 

DR.  C.     Good-night,  Carter. 

(Closes  door,  looking  intently  at  letter} 

BROOKER.     From  Nicholson  ? 

DR.  C.  Yes.  (Opens  letter  watched  by  BROOKER. 
As  he  reads  his  face  shows  an  intense  stealthy  interest, 
growing  more  and  more  eager,  almost  malignant.  Very 
quiet  hoarse  tone  denoting  the  utmost  suppressed  excite- 
ment} He  has  broken  out,  Brooker.  They've  found 
him  in  one  of  the  lowest  dens  in  Bristol.  He  has 
been  there  for  some  days.  Last  night  he  got  away 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  73 

from  there  —  they  don't  know  where.  Read. 
(BROOKER  takes  letter?)  Oh,  what  a  wretch  I  am  to 
rejoice  that  a  man  is  ruined  ! 

BROOKER  (reads).  "  He  was,  however,  in  a  much 
calmer  state  last  night,  and  had  almost  recovered. 
He  seems  to  have  had  some  suspicion  that  he  was 
being  watched,  for  during  the  evening  he  managed 
to  get  away.  We  are  making  urgent  inquiries  for  him 
in  every  direction,  and  will  let  you  know  as  soon  as 
we  have  traced  him.  We  have  carefully  observed 
your  instructions  concerning  secrecy,  and  have  not 
allowed  his  name  to  transpire."  Got  away?  What 
do  you  suppose  has  become  of  him  ? 

DR.  C.  How  should  I  know  ?  Am  I  his  keeper  ? 
Haven't  I  done  my  best?  For  the  last  six  months 
I've  held  that  man  from  slipping  over  the  precipice. 
If  I  had  let  go  my  hold  for  one  moment  he  would 
have  dropped.  Now  he  has  tumbled  in  spite  of  me  ! 
Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I've  done  with  him  !  I  give 
him  up!  Am  I  not  justified?  Eh?  Eh?  Am  I 
not  justified  ? 

BROOKER.     Carey !     Carey ! 

DR.  C.  You  know  I'm  justified  !  I  am  !  I  am  ! 
I  gave  him  every  chance,  more  than  every  chance. 
I've  fought  for  him  against  himself!  I've  kept  sus- 
picion away  from  her  !  I've  watched  him  making  love 
to  her  day  after  day,  and  I've  watched  her  lifting  her 
face  to  his  with  a  look  of  that  I'd  whistle  my  soul 
away  to  get  from  her.  Now  that's  all  past !  It's 


74  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

going  to  be  my  turn  !     I'm  free  of  him  and  she  shall 
be  free  of  him.      Yes,  I  understand  her  nature,  she 
won't  love  him  when  she  knows  the  truth. 
BROOKER.     And  you'll  let  her  know  ? 
DR.  C.     How  can  I  help  it  ?     Why  should  I  try 
to  hinder  it  ? 

(A  knock  at  the  outer  door.     During  the  above 
speeches  BROOKER  has  unobtrusively  laid 
the  letter  on  the  table  R.) 
DR.  C.     Is  it  Amphiel  ?    (Goes  to  door,  opens  it.) 

Enter  EDANA  in  outdoor  winter  dress. 

DR.  C.     Miss  Hinde. 

EDANA.     You  have  a  visitor. 

DR.  C.  (presenting).    Doctor  Brooker — Miss  Hinde. 

(EDANA  bows.) 

BROOKER  (bowing).  How  d'ye  do?  (Takes  out 
watch.)  Carey,  I  must  be  going.  (Goes  to  L.  side  of 
the  room  where  his  hat  and  overcoat  are  hanging,  takes 
them  down.)  I'm  sorry  to  be  leaving  you,  but  I've 
only  just  time  to  catch  my  train. 

(DR.  CAREY  goes  and  helps  him  on  with  over- 
coat.    EDANA  goes  towards  fire?) 

BROOKER.  How  long  will  it  take  me  to  get  to  the 
station  ? 

DR.  C.     About  ten  minutes. 

BROOKER.  You'll  let  me  know  how  this  turns 
out? 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  75 

DR.  C.     Yes. 

BROOKER.     Good-night,  Miss  Hinde. 

EDANA.     Good-night,  DR.  Brooker. 

BROOKER  (to  DR.  CAREY).     Good-bye. 

DR.  C.  Good-bye.  You're  sure  you  know  your 
way? 

BROOKER.  Oh  yes.  Carey,  old  fellow  (glancing  at 
EDANA),  are  you  sure  you  know  yours  ? 

(A  significant  look.) 

DR.  C.     I'll  try  and  find  it. 

(Exit  BROOKER  at  outer  door.) 

DR.  C.  (doses  door  after  BROOKER  and  comes  to 
EDANA,  very  tenderly).  Miss  Hinde. 

EDANA.     Have  you  heard  anything  of  Walter  ? 

DR.  C.  (hesitates).  I  hope  I  shall  have  some  news 
for  you  in  a  day  or  two. 

EDANA.  In  a  day  or  two  !  But  I  can't  wait.  I 
feel  sure  he's  in  some  danger  or  trouble.  And  I  can't 
get  to  him  ! 

DR.  C.  (very  searchingly,  but  without  showing  it  to 
her).  Suppose  you  had  to  hear  some  bad  news  of 
him — you  would  be  brave  and  bear  it  ? 

EDANA.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

DR.  C.  You  still  wish  to  share  in  this  great  enter- 
prise of  his — you  are  still  as  much  attached  to  his 
cause — and  to  him  ? 

EDANA.  Is  there  any  need  to  ask  me  that  ?  You 
know  I  am !  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  You've  heard 
something  !  He's  dead  ! 


76  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

DR.  C.     No.     You  needn't  fear  that. 

EDANA.  He's  ill.  You've  had  news.  (At  this 
moment  DR.  CAREY'S  eyes  fall  on  the  letter  BROOKER 
has  laid  on  the  table  L.  She  follows  his  glance.  DR. 
CAREY  takes  up  the  letter.}  That  letter  !  It's  about  him ! 
Why  don't  you  speak?  Oh,  why  do  you  torture  me? 

DR.  C.  (holding  letter).  Miss  Hinde,  tell  me,  you 
know  I  wouldn't  willingly  torture  you — 

EDANA.  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't.  But  if  that  letter 
has  news  of  Mr.  Amphiel,  let  me  see  it — or  at  least 
tell  me  what  it  contains.  (Holding  out  her  hand} 

DR.  C.  (his  face  shows  a  momentary  struggle}.  Tell 
me,  you  know  that  I  would  always  do  what  I  thought 
to  be  best  for  you  and  him — at  least,  best  for  you. 

EDANA.  I'm  sure  you  would,  but — I  must  know 
where  he  is.  Why  won't  you  tell  me  ? 

DR.  C.  I  don't  know,  and  this  letter  doesn't  say. 
To  read  it  would  only  add  to  your  anxiety.  Trust 
me.  You've  trusted  me  for  many  months  past.  Say 
that  you'll  trust  me  a  little  longer  ? 

EDANA  (looks  at  him}.     Yes,  I  will  trust  you. 

DR.  C.  (puts  letter  in  pocket}.  And  rest  assured 
we  shall  have  some  news  of  him  before  long. 

EDANA.  Ah,  but  when  ?  Oh,  I  can't  wait !  I've 
not  slept  for  three  nights. 

DR.  C.     Not  slept  for  three  nights  ! 

(A  knock  at  outer  door.     DR.  CAREY  goes  to 
it,  opens  it} 

DR.  C.     Lady  Valerie  ! 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  77 

LADY  VALERIE,  in  very  handsome  widoitfs  mourning, 
enters,  followed  by  SAUNDERS,  her  maid,  also  in 
mourning. 

LADY  V.  It's  an  unconscionable  hour  to  call. 
But  I  see  you  do  receive  visitors  as  late  as  this. 
(Glancing  at  EDANA.  Bows  to  her.  EDANA  bows.) 
Are  you  at  home  ? 

DR.  C.  Yes,  certainly.  As  soon  as  I've  seen 
Miss  Hinde  safely  to  the  Vicarage. 

EDANA.     Oh,  please  no. 

LADY  V.     My  maid  shall  go  with  you. 

EDANA.  It's  only  a  few  steps  across  the  fields, 
and  there  is  a  moon.  I  won't  have  any  one  come 
with  me.  Good-night,  Lady  Valerie. 

LADY  V.     Good-night. 

EDANA.     Good-night,  Dr.  Carey. 

DR.  C.  Good-night.  Sleep  well  to-night.  You 
can  and  you  will. 

EDANA.     Oh,  I  can't. 

DR.  C.  Try.  Try.  And  to-morrow  we  may  have 
news  ! 

EDANA.     Oh,  I  can't  endure  the  suspense  ! 

(Exit  EDANA  at  outer  door.      DR.   CAREY 
looks  after  her.) 

LADY  V.  Saunders,  you've  had  nothing  since 
lunch.  Go  to  the  inn  and  get  something  to  eat. 
And  wait  for  me  there. 

SAUNDERS.     Yes,  my  lady. 


78  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

(DR.  CAREY  holds  the  door  open  for  SAUNDERS 
and  closes  it  after  her.) 

DR.  C.     This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure— 

LADY  V.     Pleasure  ? 

DR.  C.     What  brings  you  back  here  ? 

LADY  V.  Boredom !  Boredom !  Boredom ! 
Boredom  devours  me  everywhere.  Even  burying 
one's  husband  has  a  smack  of  it.  And  widowhood, 
which  in  the  distance  seems  a  rosy  paradise,  is  nothing 
but  a  Sahara  when  you  get  there.  You  don't  seem 
very  pleased  to  see  me.  Am  I  welcome  ? 

DR.  C.     I'll  try  to  make  you  so. 

LADY  V.     You'll  try  ?     You're  terribly  frank. 

DR.  C.  Won't  it  be  better  for  us  to  be  quite 
honest  with  each  other  ? 

LADY  V.  You  talk  as  if  we  had  tried  the  other 
policy  and  it  hadn't  quite  succeeded. 

DR.  C.  I've  always  been  quite  honest  with  you — 
at  least,  in  all  the  great  things  of  life. 

LADY  V.  There  are  no  great  things  in  life,  my 
poor  Lewin.  It's  all  very  small  beer,  and  very  scanty 
skittles.  (Looking  at  the  table.}  White  muslin  has 
been  dining  with  you  tete-a-tete  ? 

DR.  C.  No,  my  old  friend  Brooker.  He  has  just 
left  for  London. 

LADY  V.  But  white  muslin  was  here.  I'm  horribly 
jealous — but  I'm  horribly  hungry  too. 

DR.  C.  And  I've  only  cold  chicken  to  offer  you. 
But  you  are  heartily  welcome. 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  79 

LADY  V.  I  am  heartily  welcome  to  your  cold 
chicken.  Thank  you.  I'll  try  your  cold  chicken. 

(Sitting  down  to  table?) 

DR.  C.  My  servant  has  gone  for  the  night,  so 
I'm  all  alone. 

(A  knock  at  outer  door.     DR.  CAREY  goes  to 
open  it>  opens  //,  telegraph  boy  hands  in 
a  telegram.     DR.  CAREY  closes  door?) 
DR.  C.     Allow  me. 

(Opens  telegram^  reads  it,  shows  great  interest?) 
LADY  V.     You're  all  alone.    Where  is  your  patient 
Mr.  Amphiel? 

DR.  C.  He  has  been  away.  Curiously  enough, 
this  telegram  is  from  him.  He  is  coming  back 
to-night. 

(A  pause.     DR.  CAREY  stands  much  absorbed 

looking  at  the  telegram?) 

LADY  V.  What's  the  matter?  Has  anything 
happened  to  him  ? 

DR.  C.  (recalling  himself].     No.     Nothing. 

(Puts  telegram  in  pocket.} 

LADY  V.     Then  light  your  cigar  and  talk  to  me. 
But  don't  look  at  me  while  I'm  eating. 
DR.  C.     Not  look  at  you  ? 

LADY  V.  I'm  sure  your  later  theory  is  right. 
Women  are  entirely  spiritual.  I  constantly  feel  little 
shootings  and  sproutings  about  my  shoulder-blades 
where  my  wings  will  be,  and  then  isn't  it  disgusting  ? 
two  or  three  times  every  day  my  hatefully  healthy 


8o  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

appetite  drives  me  to  toy  with  such  gross  realities  .as 
this.  (Holding  up  a  chicken  bone.)  Oh,  don't  laugh 
at  me  !  If  you  knew  how  sad  my  heart  is — (deep  sigh) 
you  never  sent  me  a  word,  Lewin. 

DR.  C.     What  could  I  say  ? 

LADY  V.  Any  cut-and-dried  message  of  condolence 
would  have  done.  It  would  have  cost  you  nothing 
and  it  would  have  meant  so  much  to  me.  I  wonder 
if  any  man  ever  guesses  the  exquisite  agony  a  woman 
feels  who  waits  and  waits  and  waits  for  one  word  of 
love  from  the  man  to  whom  she  has  been  all  the  world 
— and  waits  in  vain. 

DR\  C.  I  wonder  if  any  woman  ever  guesses  the 
exquisite  agony  a  man  feels  who  is  thrown  over  by  the 
woman  who  is  all  the  world  to  him — thrown  over  for, 
perhaps,  the  first  chance  acquaintance. 

LADY  V.  No.  No.  There  you're  wrong.  It 
wasn't  the  first  chance  acquaintance.  Let  it  pass. 
You're  mean  to  remind  me  of  that, — as  mean  as  a 
woman. 

DR.  C.     As  mean  as  a  woman  ! 

LADY  V.  Yes,  that's  the  perpetual  paradox  of 
womanhood.  We  are  angels — I  feel  sure  of  it — and 
yet  we  do  such  mean  things.  How  do  you  account 
for  it  ? 

DR.  C.  I  can't.  I  trust,  meantime,  you're  making 
a  comfortable  dinner. 

LADY  V.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  picnicking  on  my 
mother's  grave  in  the  damp. 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  81 

DR.  C.     Why  ? 

LADY  V.  Cold  chicken  is  as  cold  as  cold  shoulder. 
But  cold  chicken  and  love  make  a  divine  hot  collation. 

DR.  C.  I  fear  I  have  only  cold  chicken  to  offer 
you. 

LADY  V.  (shrugs  her  shoulders — goes  on  eating. 
After  a  little  pause).  You  haven't  asked  me  about  the 
last  two  months. 

DR.  C.     Tell  me. 

LADY  V.  You  know  I  got  a  telegram  saying  that 
it  was  only  a  question  of  a  few  weeks.  So  I  went  out 
to  him  at  once.  I  didn't  wish  to  outrage  the  decent 
hypocrisies  whereby  men  live 

DR.  C.     Men  don't  live  by  hypocrisies. 

LADY  V.     Well,  society  does.      And  I've  always 

loyally  respected  them  and  lived  up  to  them.     Well, 

I  went  out  to  him  and  was  perfectly  kind  and  attentive 

to  him  to  the  last.     And  so  ended  the  tragic  farce  of 

my  married  life.     It's  over.     I  spent  one  month  in 

unselfishly  nursing  him — I  spent  the  next  month  in 

unselfishly  devising  a  scheme  of  widow's  mourning 

that  should  spare  my  bereaved  sisters  the  additional 

pang  of  feeling  themselves  perfect  frights  during  the 

period  of  their  greatest  sorrow.     (Gets  up  and  comes 

away  from  table?)   How  do  you  think  I  have  succeeded  ? 

(She  has  a  long  handsome  cloak  with  black 

fur.      She  stands  with  arms  extended 

and  with    a    little    entreating  gesture 

towards  him.) 

G 


82  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

DR.  C.  (coldly].  Admirably,  I  should  say.  But 
I'm  no  judge. 

LADY  V.  Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  all 
the  time  I  was  planning  this  mourning  ?  I  was  think- 
ing— will  it  give  me  one  of  my  old  moments  of  charm 
in  his  eyes?  Or,  if  not,  will  it  give  me  some  new 
little  grace  or  attraction  ? 

(He  does  not  reply.  She  stands  for  a  moment 
with  a  little  appealing  gesture^  then 
suddenly  bursts  into  a  tempest  of  tears.) 

DR.  C.  Lady  Valerie !  (She  is  sobbing.)  Lady 
Valerie,  will  you  listen  to  me  ? 

LADY  V.     No  !    No  !    No  !    Oh,  I  hate  myself,  and 
I  hate  you  !    I  hate  you  !    Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !    Let  me  go ! 
(He  is  between  her  and  the  door.) 

DR.  C.  No.  Hear  me.  I  cannot  give  you  the 
love  I  once  offered  you,  and  I  have  too  tender  a 
regard  for  the  past  and  for  you  to  offer  you  the  ghost 
of  it.  Would  you  have  me  do  it  ?  Would  you  have 
me  offer  you  a  fiction,  a  lie?  Would  you  have  me 
pretend  to  love  you,  knowing  that  my  whole  heart,  my 
every  thought  and  hope  and  desire  belong  to  another 
woman  ? 

LADY  V.  But  you  can  never  marry  her !  (A 
curious  look  of  hope  on  DR.  CAREY'S  face  which  she  sees 
and  interprets^)  She  has  broken  off  her  engagement 
to  Mr.  Amphiel?  Something  has  happened  to 
him? 

DR.  C.     No.     He  is  now  on  his  way  here. 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  83 

LADY  V.  Then  what  makes  you  so  hopeful  ?  You 
can  never  marry  her. 

DR.  C.     No,  perhaps  not. 

LADY  V.  And  you  might  come  back  to  me. — It's 
not  too  late  ?  it's  not  too  late  ?  you  might  change  ? 

(  Very  imploringly?) 

DR.  C.  I  shall  never  change.  (Very firmly.}  I 
shall  never  change. 

(She  stands  very  hopeless  for  some  seconds,  then 
makes  a  shrug  of  resignation.  Her 
manner  changes^  and  is  careless  and  off- 
hand till  the  end  of  the  scene} 

LADY  V.  Very  well.  Put  on  your  hat  and  coat 
and  see  me  across  to  the  inn.  Put  on  your  hat  and 
coat.  (He  takes  his  hat  and  coat}  I  want  your  advice. 

DR.  C.     Advice  ?     About  what  ? 

LADY  V.  Marriage.  I  can  have  Bertie  Fewins  or 
Sir  George  Doudney.  Which  shall  it  be  ? 

DR.  C.     Neither. 

LADY  V.  Oh,  it  must  be  one  or  the  other.  And 
it  must  be  settled  at  once ;  so  I  shall  get  back  by  the 
mail  to-night.  (Going  towards  outer  door}  Come. 

DR.  C.  This  will  be  our  nearest  way  to  the  George. 
It  will  save  us  the  lane.  Take  my  arm  through  the 
passage.  (Indicating  inner  door} 

LADY  V.  (taking  his  arm}.  Which  shall  it  be? 
Bertie  or  Sir  George  ? 

DR.  C.  Neither!  Neither!  Why  should  it  be 
either  ? 


84  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  HI 

LADY  V.  My  dear  Lewin,  what  shall  I  be  in  five 
years'  time  if  I  don't  marry  somebody  ?  What  shall  I 
do  ?  I'm  neither  a  saint  nor  a  fool,  so  I  can't  stand 
perpetual  church-going.  No  !  It  must  be  marriage. 
Bertie  or  Sir  George  ? 

DR.  C.  That  won't  be  marriage,  that  will  be 
desecration  of  a  woman's  soul ! 

LADY  V.  (shakes  her  head,  makes  a  face  as  if  taking 
physic).  It's  a  devil  of  a  world  for  women,  Lewin. 
For  God's  sake  don't  moralise  about  it. 

(Exeunt  at  inner  door.  A  very  long  pause. 
A  knock  at  outer  door.  The  knock  is 
repeated.  The  REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE 
puts  in  his  head  at  outer  door  and  looks 
round. ) 

REV.  P.  (calling  out).  Dr.  Carey  !  Mrs.  Bowden  ! 
Dr.  Carey!  (Coming  in.)  I  came  to  Taffy's  house. 
Taffy  wasn't  at  home.  (Speaking  off.)  There's  nobody 
here. 


Re-enter  EDANA  at  outer  door. 

EDANA.  Won't  Dr.  Carey  think  it  strange  of  me 
coming  again  ? 

REV.  P.  No,  no.  I've  got  a  waggon -load  of 
excuses.  He  can't  have  gone  far.  We'll  wait  till  he 
comes  back.  (They  go  towards  fire.)  There !  Sit 
down  !  (She  sits  in  armchair.'] 

EDANA.     I'm  sure  he  has  had  some  news,  and  I'm 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  85 

sure  it's  bad  news.  Oh,  I  must  know — do  you  think 
he'll  tell  us  the  truth  ? 

REV.  P.  If  he  doesn't  tell  us,  I  must  gently 
wheedle  it  out  of  him.  Have  you  ever  studied  the 
composition  of  my  character,  Edana  ? 

EDANA.     No. 

REV.  P.  No  ?  Then  you've  never  observed  how 
exquisitely  Providence  has  blended  in  me  the  beautiful 
transparent  innocence  of  the  dove  with  the  subtle  and 
useful  wisdom  of  the  serpent.  We'll  begin  by  asking 
him  for  some  little  sleeping  draught 

EDANA.     Oh,  I  cannot  endure  another  night ! 

REV.  P.  Indeed  you  can.  The  human  spirit  can 
endure  unendurable  things.  There  is  nothing  the 
human  spirit  cannot  endure.  Come,  come  !  ( Chafing 
her  hands.)  How  cold  these  poor  little  paws  are ! 
Put  your  head  on  the  cushion  !  There  !  (Arranging 
her  comfortably  in  armchair.}  Rest  a  little  till  Dr. 
Carey  comes.  Now  what  shall  I  do  to  while  away  the 
time  ?  Shall  I  preach  you  a  little  sermon  ?  Or  shall 
I  tell  you  a  little  tale?  Or  shall  I  sing  you  a  little 
song  ?  Or  shall  I  do  all  three  ? 

EDANA.  All  three.  You  don't  think  Walter  is  ill 
— or  dead  ?  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

REV.  P.  Hush!  Hush!  Hush!  (Soothes  her 
down}  The  times  are  not  in  our  hands.  (From  this 
time  she  shows  signs  of  drowsiness,  until  the  middle  of 
the  song,  when  she  is  fast  asleep}  Now,  first  the  little 
sermon.  You  should  never  put  all  your  eggs  in  one 


86  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

basket,  unless  that  basket  is  made  of  celestial  wicker- 
work  and  is  safely  stored  away  in  heaven.  That's  the 
sermon.  Its  metaphors  are  a  little  mixed,  but  its 
brevity  is  undeniable.  Now  for  the  little  tale.  There 
was  once  a  wilful,  headstrong,  reckless,  loose -living 
young  man  whose  name  was — whose  name  was ? 

ED  AN  A  (a  little  drowsily").     Peregrine  Hinde. 

REV.  P.  Peregrine  Hinde.  And  he  loved  with 
all  his  heart  a  beautiful  heartless  woman,  whose  name 
was — whose  name  was ? 

EDANA.     Venetia  Lee,  and  she  jilted  him. 

REV.  P.  She  did.  And  he  went  about  in  black 
despair  for  months.  He  thought  his  heart  was  broken 
all  to  pieces.  But  it  wasn't.  He  conquered  his 
trouble,  and  he  met  another  girl  who  made  him  a 
dear,  true  helpmeet  all  the  years  of  his  manhood.  And 
now  when  he  remembers  that  old  trouble,  it's  only  to 
think  of  the  use  and  the  beauty  of  sorrow. 

EDANA.     What  use  ?     What  beauty  ? 

REV.  P.  The  use  of  beautifying  our  faces. 
Happiness  rounds  a  face  into  earthly  beauty,  but 
sorrow  bravely  borne  carves  it  into  heavenly  loveliness. 
That's  one  use.  And  there's  no  use  in  this  world  so 
useful  as  beauty.  And  another  use  is  to  beautify 
our  characters  and  fortify  our  spirits.  Dear  me,  dear 
me,  dear  me  !  I'm  preaching  another  sermon.  And 
another  use  that  old  troubles  have  is  the  use  of  making 
a  tale  to  tell  to  our  children  over  the  fire  on  a  winter 
evening.  There  !  Now  for  the  little  song  ! 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  87 

(By  this  time  her  eyes  are  closed.  He  croons 
out  an  old  country  song — stops  in  the 
middle  of  it  and  looks  at  her — sees  she  is 
fast  asleep.  A  knock  at  the  outer  door. 
REV.  PEREGRINE  HINDE  goes  to  open 
it,  opens  //.) 

STEPHEN  GURDON  enters. 

REV.  P.     Stephen  ! 

STEPHEN.     Is  the  Doctor  here  ? 

REV.  P.  No,  I'm  waiting  for  him.  What's  the 
matter  ? 

STEPHEN.     Jessie's  come  home. 

REV.  P.     Jessie ! 

STEPHEN.  She  wants  to  see  a  doctor,  so  I  thought 
I'd  come  here  as  Dr.  Carey  is  nearest.  And  she  said 
she  should  like  to  see  you  too,  pa'son. 

REV.  P.  Very  well,  Stephen.  I'll  come  to  her. 
Is  she  ill? 

STEPHEN.  She  ain't  in  any  immediate  danger,  but 
she  doesn't  look  as  if  she'd  got  many  months  to  live. 

REV.  P.     Poor  child  !     Is  she  changed  ? 

STEPHEN.  She's  what  you  might  expect  her  to  be. 
What  would  any  girl  be  after  five  years  of  that  life  ? 

What  would 

(Glancing  very  significantly  at  ED  ANA,  who 
is  sleeping  in  the  armchair.} 

REV.  P.   (hastily '.)      Hush  !      Hush  !      She  hasn't 


88  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

slept  for  three  nights  !  (Draws  the  curtains  down.)  I 
can  leave  her  for  a  few  minutes.  Now,  Stephen,  I'll 
go  with  you ! 

(Exeunt   STEPHEN    and   REV.    PEREGRINE 

HINDE  at  outer  door.  A  long  pause.} 
ED  AN  A  (asleep,  moans).  Walter  !  Walter  !  Come 
away  from  them !  Come !  I'll  take  care  of  you !  Ah ! 
(A  little  shriek.}  Don't  hurt  him  !  You  don't  know 
how  brave  and  good  he  is !  Make  haste,  dear  !  Make 
haste !  (Laughs}  That's  right !  Come  along ! 
Dearest !  Dearest !  Dearest !  ( Very  caressing,  with 
movement  of  stroking  his  hair  with  her  hand}  Where 
have  you  been  all  this  while?  Why  did  you  leave 
me  so  long  ?  And  not  a  word !  Oh,  it's  cruel ! 
Don't  leave  me  again  !  You  won't?  You  won't? 

(A  long  moan,  then  silence.  After  a  long 
pause,  DR.  CAREY  enters  at  inner  door, 
goes  up  to  the  table  in  the  bay  window, 
throws  off  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  puts 
them  carelessly  on  the  chair  R.  of  table 
in  window,  takes  up  a  glass  slide,  puts 
it  under  microscope,  is  busy  bending  over 
it  for  some  seconds.  AMPHIEL'S  face 
appears  to  the  right  of  the  window  at 
back,  he  looks  in  and  creeps  stealthily  all 
round  the  window.  As  soon  as  he  has 
disappeared  to  the  left,  DR.  CAREY  shows 
sudden  attention  as  if  he  were  arrested  by 
a  sound  outside.  He  hastily  leaves  table 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  89 

and  goes  to  the  little  window  L.,  looks  off. 
A  gleam  of  interest,  almost  triumph, 
crosses  his  face.  The  handle  of  the  outer 
door  is  fumbled  at  and  half  turned.  DR. 
CAREY  watches  it.  The  handle  is  again 
turned^  and  the  door  opens  (on  to  the 
stage),  AMPHIEL'S  face  being  seen  by  the 
audience  before  it  is  seen  by  DR.  CAREY. 
AMPHIEL  looks  very  haggard  and  dis- 
sipated. His  first  expression  seen  by  the 
audience  is  watchful,  sly,  and  anxious, 
but  as  he  enters,  and  is  seen  by  DR. 
CAREY,  he  assumes  a  frank,  cordial 
manner,  goes  up  to  DR.  CAREY  with 
outstretched  hand.) 
AMPHIEL  (very  cordially).  Ah,  Doctor,  you  got 

my  telegram 

DR.  C.  (refusing  his  hand).     Yes. 

AMPHIEL.      I   thought   I'd   let   you  know  I  was 

coming.     I've  been  working  in  the  good  cause.      I 

knew  you  wouldn't  let  me  go,  so  I  slipped  away. 

Won't  you  shake  hands  with  me  and  welcome  me 

back? 

DR.  C.  (rather  sternly).     Where  have  you  been  ? 
AMPHIEL  (imth  the  utmost  frankness].     In  the  West 

of  England  looking  after  the  refuges  I  started  last 

year.       We've    done    such    good    work    in    Bristol. 

(ED ANA  stirs  a  little  and  moves  her  hand.)     Why  do 

you  look  at  me  like  that  ? 


90  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

DR.  C.  (more  sternly).     Where  have  you  been  ? 

AMPHIEL.  What  makes  you  so  angry  with  me? 
Surely  you  don't  suspect — you  don't  suspect  that  I've 
broken  my  word  ? 

DR.  C.  (very  sternly).     Where  have  you  been  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Don't  I  tell  you  ?  I've  been  engaged 
in  my  work. 

DR.  C.     All  the  time  ? 

AMPHIEL.  Yes,  every  day,  every  hour,  almost 
every  minute  since  I  left  you.  I've  done  nothing 
else. 

DR.  C.     You  liar  ! 

(ED  ANA  opens  her  eyes  and  looks  round,  scarcely 
awake,  listens  as  if  in  continuance  of 
her  dream,  gradually  growing  more  and 
more  interested^) 

AMPHIEL.  You  don't  believe  me  ?  I  can  give  you 
an  account  of  how  I  have  spent  every  moment  of  my 
absence. 

DR.  C.  Shall  I  give  you  an  account  instead? 
Shall  I  tell  you  where  and  how  you  have  spent  the  last 
few  days  ?  You've  been  at  the  Harp  in  Temple  Mead, 
Bristol,  one  of  the  lowest  and  filthiest  dens  in  the 
place.  Shall  I  tell  you  in  what  condition  and  in 
whose  company  you've  been  ?  You've  been  lying 
there  in  a  drunken  debauch  since  last  Thursday,  in 
the  company  of  sots  and  harlots,  fouling,  maddening, 
destroying  yourself. 

AMPHIEL.     It's   true !      It's  true !     I'm  a  beast  \ 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN 

I'm  a  beast !     I'm  not  fit  to  live — I'll  go  and  end  it 
this  moment.          (Rushing  off  towards  outer  door. ) 

DR.  C.  Stop,  you  fool !  There's  somebody  else 
to  think  of.  Do  you  know  what  this  means  to  her? 
Do  you  know  that  she  has  been  night  and  day  on  a 
rack  of  suspense  ?  She  was  here  just  now  begging — 
begging  me  to  give  her  some  news  of  you. 

AMPHIEL.     You  didn't  tell  her  ? 

DR.  C.  No.  I  left  that  for  you  to  do.  Go  and 
report  yourself  to  her. 

AMPHIEL.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

DR.  C.  She  must  know  sooner  or  later.  Do  you 
think  I  will  let  you  wreck  her  life  as  well  as  your  own  ? 
Do  you  think  I  will  stand  by  and  let  her  marry  you ; 
bear  you  children  that  will  perhaps  inherit  your  taint 
in  every  bone  and  nerve,  let  her  watch  you  sinking 
inch  by  inch  into  imbecility  and  corruption,  while  she 
gradually  loses  all  her  beauty  and  trust  and  love- 
On,  my  God  !  what  a  gift  for  a  man  ! — and  becomes 
a  hopeless,  wretched  drudge  to  you  and  your  vice 
— do  you  think  I'll  stand  by  and  see  that?  Eh, 
do  you  think  I  will  ?  No  !  put  an  end  to  it.  Do 
you  hear  ?  Put  an  end  to  it !  She's  over  at  the 
Vicarage  waiting  for  news  of  you.  Go  and  tell  her 
what  you  are. 

(ED  AN  A,  who  has  been  listening,  amazed  and 
horrified,  comes  to  curtains  still  dazed 
and  overwhelmed.} 

AMPHIEL.     Very  well.     You  can  make  me  tell  her ; 


92  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

but,  mark  me,  if  you  do  I'll  end  it.     The  moment, 
she  knows  me  for  what  I  am  I'll  kill  myself. 

(EDANA,  who  is  about  to  draw  aside  the 
curtains  and  declare  herself,  draws  back, 
stands  still,  horror-stricken,  till  end  of 
scene.") 

AMPHIEL  (suddenly  turns  to  DR.  CAREY,  with  an 
outburst  of  agonised  entreaty).  Give  me  one  more 
chance !  Don't  let  her  know !  Give  me  one  more 
chance  !  I'll  keep  my  word  this  time  ! 

DR.  C.     Your  word  ! 

AMPHIEL.  I  will !  I  will !  Don't  despise  me  ! 
I'm  not  so  bad  as  you  think  me.  Oh,  do  hear  me ! 
Don't  let  her  know  ! 

DR.  C.  But  to  continue  to  deceive  her — the 
hypocrisy 

AMPHIEL.  I'm  not  a  hypocrite !  I've  given  all 
my  time  and  money  to  save  others  from  this  curse ! 
I'm  not  a  hypocrite ;  don't  think  that  of  me !  Oh, 
you  don't  know  what  awful  struggles  I've  had — how 
I've  tried  and  tried  and  tried  to  conquer  myself. 
And  I  will !  I  won't  give  way  again  !  Give  me  one 
more  chance !  You're  my  only  friend !  don't  turn 
away  from  me  !  Give  me  one  more  chance,  only  one, 
only  one.  One  more  chance,  for  mercy's  sake — one 
more  chance ! 

DR.  C.     And  if  I  did,  how  could  I  trust  you  now  ? 

AMPHIEL.  I'll  give  you  my  oath.  Listen.  I 
mean  it.  There's  no  going  back  from  this.  Remember 


ACT  in  THE  PHYSICIAN  93 

what  I  say  and  bring  it  up  against  me.  If  ever  from 
this  time  forth  one  cursed  drop  shall  pass  my  lips, 
may  I  lose  her,  may  I  lose  my  soul  and  everything 
that  I  hold  dear  in  this  world  and  the  next.  There  ! 
I've  said  it.  You  believe  me  ?  You'll  give  me  one 
last  chance  for  her  sake  ?  One  last  chance  ! 

DR.  C.  For  her  sake,  because  I  put  her  happiness 
beyond  everything  in  this  world,  I  will  give  you  one 
last  chance.  I'll  forget  these  last  few  weeks — do  you 
forget  them  too — and  I'll  help  you  again  to  the  very 
utmost  of  my  power. 

AMPHIEL  (bursts  into  tears).  God  bless  you  !  I'll 

—-I'll — I'll (breaking  down,  sobbing  and  exhausted}. 

God  bless  you !  You  are  good  to  me !  and  I'll 
deserve  it.  I  will— I'll— I'll— 

DR.  C.  Come  !  come  !  You're  too  excited.  You 
had  better  go  to  rest.  Let  me  get  you  something 
after  your  journey. 

AMPHIEL.  No.  I  can't  eat.  I — I — I (clinging 

to  DR.  CAREY  piteously  and  crying  feebly).  Oh,  I  feel 
so  weak  and  wretched.  I'll  get  to  rest — I'll 

DR.  C.  Ah,  my  poor  lad,  this  is  a  hard  taskmaster 
you've  got.  You've  escaped  him  this  time.  Don't 
fall  into  his  hands  again,  for  he'll  have  no  mercy 
on  you. 

AMPHIEL.  I  won't!  I  won't!  (Crying?)  Oh, 
you  are  good  to  me.  You  won't  leave  me. 

DR.  C.  (very  tenderly).  No,  no,  I  won't  leave  you. 
Trust  to  me.  Don't  despair.  We'll  make  a  fresh 


94  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  in 

start  to-morrow.  (Soothing  him  and  helping  him  to- 
inner  door.)  Come,  come  !  Cheer  up  !  There,  there  ! 
A  fresh  start !  A  new  life  to-morrow. 

(Helping  him  off  at  inner  door.  Closes  it. 
Comes  down  stage  slowly,  reflectively, 
with  anxious  face. 

ED  AN  A,  who  has  stood  horror-stricken  and 
quite  still  behind  the  curtains,  draws 
them  slowly  aside.  His  eye  catches  the 
movement  of  the  curtains,  and  he  watches 
them,  sees  her  standing  there.) 
DR.  C.  You  heard?  (She  signs  "  Yes.") 


CURTAIN. 
(Nine  months  pass  between  Acts  III.  and  7F.) 


ACT  IV 

SCENE — THE  VICARAGE  DRAWING-ROOM  AT  FONT- 
LEAS,  A  PLEASANT  COSY  ROOM  WITH  PRETTY 

CHINTZ  FURNITURE. 

A  large  window  at  back  looking  over  a  garden  in  late 
summer.  A  door  R.  A  door  L.  Discover  REV. 
PEREGRINE  up  at  window,  which  is  open. 

REV.  P.  (calling  off  towards  L.).  Go  round,  Mrs. 
Bowden.  Go  round  and  come  in  ! 

(Crosses  to  left  and  opens  the  door.} 

Enter  MRS.  BOWDEN  in  her  Sunday  best. 

MRS.  B.  (curtseying).  Good  afternoon,  pa'son.  I 
felt  I  must  come  and  ask  after  Miss  Edana — and 
whether  she  has  heard  the  good  news  ? 

REV.  P.     Good  news  ? 

MRS.  B.  We've  just  had  a  telegram  from  Dr. 
Carey.  He's  coming  back  to-day.  Haven't  you 
heard  ? 


96  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  iv 

REV.  P.     Oh  yes.     We've  had  a  telegram  too. 

MRS.  B.  And  of  course  Mr.  Amphiel  is  coming 
along  with  him  ? 

REV.  P.  (rather  troubled).  Oh  yes — Mr.  Amphiel 
is  coming  with  him. 

MRS.  B.  I  was  so  pleased,  because  I  thought, 
"  There  !  It's  quite  a  providence  Mr.  Amphiel  coming 
back  just  as  Miss  Edana  has  got  well  again.  How 
is  she  ?  " 

REV.  P.  Much  better.  Quite  well !  Quite  her 
old  self  except  for  a  little  weakness. 

EDANA  enters  door  R.  ;   her  features  are  sharper,  and 
she  shows  signs  of  illness  and  suffering. 

REV.  P.     Here  she  is  ! 

MRS.  B.  (going  cordially  to  EDANA).  My  dear,  I 
be  so  glad  to  see  your  pretty  face  again  !  I  must  give 
you  a  kiss  for  the  sake  of  old  times!  (Kissing her.) 
Ah,  there's  somebody  else  coming  to  kiss  you  this 
blessed  day. 

(A  shade  of  trouble  and  horror  crosses  EDANA'S 

face  and  she  turns  away.) 
MRS.  B.     And  how  are  you,  my  dear  ? 
EDANA.     I'm  better,  thank  you. 

(Sits  down  apart,  with  a  quiet  and  reserved 

manner.      Wedding  bells  ring  ozit.) 
REV.  P.     Dear  me  !     I  was  forgetting — I've  got  to 
marry  James  Hebbings  and  Louisa  Pack. — I  suppose 
you're  coming  to  the  wedding,  Mrs.  Bowden  ? 


ACT  iv  THE  PHYSICIAN  97 

MRS.  B.  Yes,  to  be  sure — and  aren't  you  coming, 
my  dear — to  see  James  and  Louisa  married  ? 

EDANA.     No — I'd  rather  stay  at  home. 

MRS.  B.  Ah,  to  be  sure  !  I  don't  wonder.  You're 
expecting  Mr.  Amphiel  every  minute.  Let  me  see — 
how  long  is  it  since  he  and  Dr.  Carey  went  away — it 
was  last  December,  wasn't  it? — How  time  does  slip 
away ! 

REV.  P.  (trying  to  get  her  away  from  EDANA). 
Yes,  it  does  !  We  ought  to  be  at  the  church. — Come 
along,  Mrs.  Bowden. 

MRS.  B.  (to  EDANA).  Well,  good-bye,  my  dear. 
I  hear  poor  Jessie  Gurdon  is  very  near  the  end, 
pa'son. 

REV.  P.  Yes,  poor  girl !  I  was  with  her  last 
night,  and  I  scarcely  thought  she'd  last  till  this 
morning. 

MRS.  B.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  what  a  world  of  sin 
and  misery  it  is,  to  be  sure  !  It's  a  good  job  as 
there's  a  better  one  by  and  by. 

REV.  P.  It's  a  bad  job,  Mrs.  Bowden,  that  folks 
don't  make  a  good  job  of  this  one,  here  and  now. 


Enter,  L.,  LIZZIE,  the  Vicarage  servant. 

LIZZIE.     James  Hebbings  and  Louisa  Pack  would 
like  to  see  you  for  a  minute  before  the  wedding,  sir. 
REV.  P.     Show  them  in. 


H 


98  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  iv 

LIZZIE  beckons  off  and  JAMES  and  LOUISA  enter,  L.,  in 
their  wedding  clothes.  They  are  arm-in-arm,  and 
JAMES  is  very  much  embarrassed. 

JAMES.     We've  come,  pa'son 

(Breaks  down  and  has  a  little  Jit  of  foolish 

giggling.} 

LOUISA  (nudging  JAMES).  Do  behave  yourself, 
James.  (To  REV.  PEREGRINE.)  We  thought  as  Miss 
Edana  wasn't  coming  to  the  church,  we  shouldn't  like 
her  to  miss  seeing  us  in  our  wedding  clothes. 

(Spreading  herself  and  JAMES  for  EDANA'S 

inspection?) 

EDANA.     Thank  you,  Louisa — thank  you,  James. 
(  With  effort  to  take  an  interest?) 
MRS.    B.      Very   sweet,    oh,   very   sweet.      Quite 
taking !  (Admiring  them?) 

JAMES.     And  also  we  thought  we  might  akse  you, 
pa'son,  whether  everything  is  in  good  order  for  the 
wedding — that  is,  so  fur  as  your  part  of  these  pro- 
ceedings is. concerned.     (Adds  thoughtfully)  Thereby. 
REV.  P.     My  part  of  the  proceedings  shall  be  duly 
and  punctually  performed,  James. 
JAMES.     And  ours  also. 

(Suddenly   makes   a   grab    at    his   waistcoat 
pocket,  shows  alarm 9  feels  in  his  pockets, 
disengages  himself  from  'LomSh,  fumbles.) 
LOUISA     What's  the  matter  ? 
JAMES.     I've  lost  the  ring. 


ACT  iv  THE  PHYSICIAN  99 

LOUISA.     No — no 

JAMES.  Yes — no,  here  it  is.  That's  all  right ! 
I'll  make  sure  of  it  this  time. 

(Placing  it  carefully  in  pocket,  keeps  one  hand 
carefully  on  the  pocket  all  the  remainder 
of  the  scene.) 

LOUISA.  Do  behave  yourself,  James.  (JAMES 
gives  her  his  arm  very  ceremoniously.)  And  we  wish 
you  our  best  respects,  miss.  And  we  thank  you  for 
your  beautiful  present.  And  we're  so  sorry  you  aren't 
coming  to  the  wedding 

MRS.  B.  Why  don't  you  perk  up  a  bit,  my  dear, 
and  come  ? 

EDANA  (quickly).  No,  no,  indeed  I  can't.  But  I 
hope  you  will  be  very  happy. 

JAMES  (with  a  giggle,  glancing  at  LOUISA).  No  fear ! 
And  also  no  fear  for  you  and  Mr.  Amphiel,  miss 

LOUISA.  And  we  hope  you'll  very  soon  be  married 
yourself,  miss. 

(EDANA  turns  away  to  window  and  hides  her 
head.} 

JAMES.     What's  the  matter  ? 

MRS.  B.  Don't  you  see,  you  silly  chap  ?  It's  her 
joy  that  her  sweetheart's  coming  back.  He's  been 
nearly  all  over  the  world,  and  she  hasn't  seen  him  for 
nine  months. 

REV.  P.  (who  has  shown  sympathy  with  EDANA). 
Come,  I  think  it's  nearly  time  that  we  were  all  over  at 
the  church.  Now,  James.  Now,  Louisa. 


ioo  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  iv 

JAMES  (to  LOUISA).     Have  we  said  anything  wrong? 
(Exeunt    JAMES   and   LOUISA   arm-in-arm, 
door  L.) 

REV.  P.     Now,  Mrs.  Bowden 

(EDANA  is  sobbing  a  little  in  window?) 
MRS.   B.     Good-bye,  my  dear !     It's  joy  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  him  ! 

(Making  a  movement  to  go  to  EDANA.) 
REV.  P.  (intercepting  her).     If  it  is  joy,  let  it  be 
sacred.     Leave  her  to  me  ! 

MRS.  B.  (snivelling  a  little).  I  know  what  it  is. 
God  bless  you,  my  dear. 

(Exit  MRS.  BOWDEN  door  L.,  leaving  the  door 

open?) 

REV.  P.  (to  EDANA).  My  dear  !  this  has  been  too 
much  for  you. 

(LIZZIE  shows  in  STEPHEN  by  the  open  door. 

Exit  LIZZIE. 

REV.  P.     Stephen—it's  all  over  ? 
STEPHEN.     Yes.     I  want  a  word  with  you,  pa'son. 
(EDANA  is  going.)     And  with  you  too,  miss. 
EDANA.     Poor  Jessie  is  gone  ? 
STEPHEN.     Yes.     She  asked  me  to  thank  you,  and 
you  too,  pa'son,  for  all  your  kindness.     (A  little  pause.) 

And  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you 

REV.  P.     What  ? 

STEPHEN.  Last  night,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
she  was  quite  clear  and  bright,  and  she  looked  for  a 
minute  or  two  like  her  old  self.  She  told  me  the 


ACT  iv  THE  PHYSICIAN  101 

name  of  the  man  who  ruined  her  and  took  her  away 
from  home. 

REV.  P.     Yes  ?     Who  was  it,  Stephen  ? 

STEPHEN.  It's  the  man  that's  coming  back  to 
Fontleas  to-day. 

REV.  P.     Are  you  sure,  Stephen,  it  was  he  ? 

STEPHEN.  She  was  dying,  and  she  didn't  tell  me 
a  lie.  You  know  the  man  I  mean,  miss  ? 

EDANA.     Yes. 

STEPHEN.  Then  I  needn't  say  any  more.  That's 
the  man  that  ruined  Jessie  and  led  her  into  that  life 
of  shame.  If  you  marry  him  now  you  marry  him  with 
your  eyes  open.  (EDANA  turns  away.)  I've  done 
right  to  warn  her,  pa'son  ? 

REV.  P.     Yes,  Stephen,  you've  done  right. 

STEPHEN.     He's  expected  to-day,  ain't  he  ? 

REV.  P.     Yes,  every  minute. 

STEPHEN.     I  shall  have  a  word  to  say  to  him. 

REV.  P.  No,  Stephen,  no.  You'll  forgive  him. 
Go  now ;  I'll  come  over  to  you  by  and  by. 

STEPHEN.     I  shall  have  a  word  to  say  to  him. 

(Exit  STEPHEN,  L.) 

REV.  P.     My  poor  girl ! 

EDANA.  Father,  I  cannot  marry  him  !  I  cannot ! 
I  cannot !  We  were  wrong  not  to  tell  him  before  he 
left  England. 

REV.  P.  We  did  it  for  the  best.  Dr.  Carey  said 
that  if  he  knew  you  had  found  him  out  it  would  most 
likely  prey  upon  his  mind  and  drive  him  to  drink  and 


102  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  iv 

death.  And  when  Dr.  Carey  offered  to  give  him  one 
more  chance  and  take  him  away 

ED  AN  A.  I  think  Dr.  Carey  is  the  truest  and  best 
man  that  ever  lived.  I  can  never  thank  him  enough. 
But  I  was  wrong  to  let  him  go,  I  ought  to  have  told 
Walter  and  broken  it  off  at  the  time 

REV.  P.  Suppose  you  had,  and  had  sent  him  to 
despair 

EDANA.  He  will  have  to  know  now.  I  wonder  he 
hasn't  guessed  it  from  my  letters.  I  wonder  he  didn't 
guess  it  when  I  wished  him  "  Good-bye,"  for  I  shud- 
dered and  felt — oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  felt — 
almost  as  if  I  hated  him.  And  all  these  months  he 
has  been  away,  I  have  felt  my  dislike  for  him  growing 
day  by  day.  And  he  is  coming  back,  as  he  thinks,  to 
marry  me — you  remember  what  he  said  in  his  last 
letter.  And  Dr.  Carey  writes  that  he  has  really  kept 
his  word  this  time.  Oh,  tell  me  what  can  I  do  ?  what 
can  I  do  ?  I  don't  want  to  be  cruel  to  him — I  don't 
want  to  drive  him  to  that ;  but  whatever  happens,  I 
cannot  marry  him,  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  I  cannot ! 

Re-enter  LIZZIE,  R. 

LIZZIE.  They've  sent  over  from  the  church,  sir. 
The  folks  are  all  there,  and  they're  waiting  for  you  to 
go  on  with  the  wedding. 

REV.  P.  Very  well,  Lizzie,  I'll  come  at  once. 
(Exit  LIZZIE,  L.)  I  must  go.  Don't  give  way,  dear. 
I'll  come  back  as  soon  as  the  wedding  is  over. 


ACT  iv  THE  PHYSICIAN  103 

EDANA.     And  you'll  think  of  some  way  of  breaking 

it  to  him  without 

REV.  P.  Without  breaking  your  heart  and  without 
breaking  his?  Yes,  I  must  think  of  some  way.  I 
must  think  of  some  way. 

(Exit  L.,  puzzling  and  anxious.  EDANA,  left 
alone,  goes  to  table,  sits,  and  buries  her 
face  in  hands.  DR.  CAREY  appears  at 
the  window  R.,  and  watches  her  with 
great  interest  for  some  moments  without 
her  seeing  him  ;  at  length,  in  turning, 
she  catches  sight  of  him;  stops.} 

EDANA.     Dr.  Carey (A  little  alarmed.} 

DR.  C.  (through  the  window.     He  is  bronzed  as  if 
with  a  long  sea  voyage).     May  I  come  in  ? 
EDANA.     Is  any  one  with  you  ? 
DR.  C.     No,  I  am  alone. 
EDANA.     Will  you  go  round  ? 

(He  disappears  at  back.     Enters  L.,  looks  at 
her  with  great  interest,  anxiety,  longing, 
and  affection.} 
DR.  C.     Are  you  better  ? 
EDANA.     Yes. 

DR.  C.     No  one  in  the  house  ? 
EDANA.     No,  they  are  gone  to  the  wedding.     Are 
you  alone  ? 

DR.  C.     Yes — quite — for  the  time.     (Taking  her 
hands}     Let  me  look  at  you.     You've  been  very  ill? 
EDANA.     Yes.    It  was  that  dreadful  night.    I  didn't 


io4  THE  PHYSICIAN  ACT  iv 

feel  it  at  the  time,  but  after  you  and  he  had  gone,  I 

felt — I (Shudders^  then  suddenly  breaks  down  and 

sobs  out]     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  back  ! 

(Sobbing.) 

DR.  C.     Come,  come,  I  must  have  you  brave  ! 

EDANA  (a  little  recovering).     Where  is  he  ? 

DR.  C.     I've  not  brought  him  to  Fontleas. 

EDANA.     Is  he  better — well  ? 

DR.  C.     Quite  well. 

EDANA.     Where  is  he  ? 

DR.  C.  I  had  to  hurry  to  Europe,  because  I 
wanted  to  get  to  India  at  once  and  deal  with  this 
fresh  outbreak  of  the  plague.  So  I  had  to  leave  him. 

EDANA.     Leave  him  ?     Where  ? 

DR.  C.  He  hasn't  come  by  this  vessel.  He  won't 
be  back  for  some  weeks — perhaps  months. 

(  Watching  her  very  closely.} 

EDANA.     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  ! 

DR.  C.  (with  a  sudden  light  of  hope  in  his  face). 
Glad  ?  (Looks  at  her  again  with  anxious  interrogation. ) 
Glad  ?  (She  nods.)  Miss  Hinde,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

EDANA.  I  cannot  marry  him.  (DR.  CAREY'S  face 
brightens  with  the  utmost  excitement  of  hope.)  I  must 
write  and  tell  him.  Dr.  Carey,  if  he  knows  that  our 
engagement  is  broken  off  and  that  I  can  never  see 
him  again,  will  it  harm  him?  Will  it  drive  him  to 
despair  and — worse  ? 

DR.  C.     No. 

EDANA.     You're  sure? 


ACT  iv  THE  PHYSICIAN  105 

DR.  C.  Quite  sure.  Miss  Hinde,  three  days  before 
we  sailed,  he  left  me.  I  feared  what  had  happened. 
I  saw  no  more  of  him  till  an  hour  before  the  ship  was 
due  to  leave.  He  came  on  board  a  perfect  wreck ;  he 

had  been  sleeping  in  the  rain,  and  was  very  ill 

EDANA.     Go  on. 

DR.  C.  He  had  a  few  days  of  awful  agony  and 
remorse,  and  then  pneumonia  set  in.  He  passed 
away  very  peacefully  (wedding  hymn  in  church),  and 
asked  me  to  beg  you  to  forgive  him. 

EDANA.  I  forgive  him.  And  you — what  will  you 
do? 

DR.  C.     I  go  to  India,  unless — unless 

(He  holds  out  his  arms  to  her  with  a  gesture 
of  longing  entreaty.  She  goes  to  him  very 
simply.  He  utters  a  great  cry  of  satisfied 
love  as  she  falls  into  his  arms.) 

CURTAIN. 


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